Treacherous
by BearandtheBow
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot knew how to keep his true self hidden, yet someone else always paid the price for it. M rating for : sexual content and mild violence/gore. *SECOND DRAFT UP* * more spelling edits made 03.2017*
1. Chapter 1

**Treacherous - A word used to describe something largely unknown, but presumed to be highly dangerous.**

* * *

Myla pulled up to the curb, parking just across from the neon blue umbrella in the window, and scanned the sidewalk for her cousin.

Most mornings, Jasmine was already outside. She would climb into the family wagon, spouting complaints about this and that – patrons, her boss, how long she had been made to stand outside waiting – sometimes all before Myla could throw the car into park. Myla glanced at the digital clock on her dash. 4:32 AM.

She was definitely on time, so it worried her a little to not see Jasmine in her usual spot. Myla was at the very least vaguely aware of the club's unsavory reputation – it used to be mob-owned, or perhaps it still was. It would certainly explain why her cousin refused to help her get a job there. Although, Jasmine was a flashy, gossipy loudmouth, so maybe this wasn't the best working environment for her either. A term like "mob-owned" tends to inspire thoughts of employees who "knew too much" that were made to "disappear". With that frame of mind, it wasn't hard to imagine people drenched in illegal activity wanting a girl like Jasmine gone.

These were not good thoughts to have. Myla reached over and retrieved the emergency phone from the glove box. Occasionally, Jasmine was known to go elsewhere after work with friends, or some guy, and would send a text, but Myla rarely remembered to check the phone first thing in the morning.

No texts. Myla nervously flipped the phone open and shut while she contemplated calling Jasmine. Maybe she had gotten distracted – it was the Friday/Saturday shift, after all – it was believable that she had lost track of time, or gotten drunk, or knocked out in a booth. It had happened before. Chances were Jasmine was completely fine and she was just overreacting. Myla set the phone down on the passengers seat, feeling momentarily assured that she was stressing for nothing. Jasmine would walk out the door any second now with some wild story about her night.

4:47 AM.

Well, she tried. Myla had tried her best to give the situation a healthy amount of doubt, but there was no way she could go on imagining depressing scenarios of her cousin either drunk or dead. Plus, this was just inconvenient – Myla had a job to get to. She picked the phone back up, flipped it open, pressed Jasmine's speed-dial number, and hit send.

Voice mail. Myla frowned; there were no other numbers in this phone that could be used to reach her. 4:51 AM. Twenty minutes is plenty long enough to wait outside for someone before you go looking for them, and this was a club, not an abandoned haunted house. She sighed, glancing out the window again before turning off the car and stepping out into the mildly foggy morning. The glowing umbrella flickered from behind the glass as she walked past it, cautiously entering the club.

As surprised as Myla was to find the door to an exclusive club that had closed for the night a good hour beforehand unlocked, it was outdone by the surprise of the several men in suits by the bar at the sight of her.

"Can we help you?" One of them asked.

"Um, yeah." Her voice squeaked. "I'm looking for Jazz-Jasmine." She corrected.

"And who might be asking about our dear Jasmine?"

"Her cousin? I pick her up every day but I think she may have gotten...distracted?" Myla shifted uncomfortably as the men looked her up and down, interested but wary.

"Oh – Myla. She's mentioned you before." The same man answered, sounding much more cordial than before. He stepped forward, sliding his arm around her waist before leading her away from the bar and toward the tables. "Why don't you take a seat, honey, and I'll get her for you, okay?"

Myla nodded, eager to get him off of her. She took a seat in an empty booth while the man disappeared up some steps. The others left the room as well, leaving her almost alone, save for a man behind the bar putting away glasses. This was actually Myla's first time inside the club, and with (nearly) everyone gone, it was easier to take the advantage to look around a bit. It looked more cabaret than nightclub, with the theater bulb lights and stage combo, which lead to an almost old-school glamour feel. Meanwhile, the umbrella's overhead were a more contemporary, quirky touch. Myla had seen how her cousin and work friends dressed – all classic and vampy. So different from her florals and light colors, like the powder blue summer dress she was wearing today. The outfit felt like a momentary bad choice as she sat in the dark, chilly bar. Still, if Jasmine would have allowed it, she might have considered working here, because mob presence aside, really it seemed like such an interesting place to work.

A few more minutes passed, and Myla started to feel nervous again. It shouldn't be taking someone this long to shuffle Jasmine out to her, no matter how drunk or tired she was. Another few minutes and she would...seriously _consider_ leaving without her. She wouldn't, but she would consider it, and tell Jasmine so.

"Well hello there."

Myla stiffened in her seat. For obvious reasons, she had hoped to be in and out, the least of which was the fact that she was supposed to be clocking into work right now. Ignoring the desire to avoid anything that might keep her here for longer than she had to be, she turned around to see a very pale man, with oddly spiked black hair and a thin, beak-like nose. He smiled down at her, though his eyes didn't quite match the friendliness coloring the rest of his expression.

"Are we hiring again?" He asked. "I can't say I recognize your face."

Considering she had spent the bulk of her morning thinking about how cool this place was, you think she would have lied and said yes - that was absolutely the reason she was here. Myla's mouth was too dry for the laugh she attempted, but she tried anyway. She wasn't usually the worst when it came to meeting strangers, but she wasn't quite sure she was allowed to be here, much less be hitting up Jasmine's co-workers. "No, I'm here to pick up my cousin."

"I see." He said, still smiling. "But, where are my manners? My name is Oswald Cobblepot – the proprietor of this establishment. Would you mind terribly if I say with you?"

"Not at all." Myla smiled back at him while she smoothed down the fabric of her skirt over her lap. Mr. Cobblepot carefully leaned his cane against the wooden panel separating the booths before taking his seat across from her. "I'm Myla. Myla Kozak." She added quickly, not wanting to appear rude, or too impersonal.

His eyes briefly lit up at the recognition of her surname, but made no mention of Jasmine."That's a lovely name, Miss Kozak. So, what do you do?"

"I work at a bakery, on west Edwidge." She answered simply, glancing around. The place was still largely empty, save for her new guest and the barkeep. There was that, at least, although it didn't make her feel any more comfortable. Myla didn't like being alone with people – much less people she didn't know. "And I go to school."

"Gotham University, I assume. When you say bakery, so you mean breads, or sweets?" Oswald asked, expressing far more interest in the subject than most had.

"Yeah, night classes, and, uh, sweets. A lot of wedding cakes...but I mostly work the register." Myla didn't add that she only got to bake during the busy seasons. Her hands moved to play with the ends of her long hair, the way she always did when she was feeling anxious.

"Sounds like it gets a bit tedious." This Mr. Cobblepot person had such a strange quality to his voice. It was sort of raspy, a touch shaky, even though he didn't appear at all to be nervous like she was. Overall, he didn't much look or seem like the type to own a nightclub.

Myla shrugged. "It's alright – I really like the people I work for, though. For example, I'm going to be," she glanced at the clock next to the bar and frowned, "wow – almost an hour late to work, and they probably won't even care."

"I do hope your cousin isn't always this inconsiderate."

"She really isn't." Myla certainly didn't want Jasmine's boss to get the impression that she was unreliable, even though she sort of was. "This is practically the only time she didn't meet me outside and I just got worried about her is all."

Oswald nodded approvingly. "It's a good trait to have – wanting to look out for your family."

"Myla." Jasmine's voice suddenly rang out sharply from across the room, causing Myla to jump in her seat. She turned to her cousin, who looked equal parts furious and terrified. Jasmine quickly approached the table, hand darting out to grip Myla's arm, practically yanking her out of the booth. "I'm very sorry if my _baby_ cousin was bothering you at all, Mr. Cobblepot." She made sure to really highlight the word "baby", eliciting a rather indignant look from the younger Kozak.

"No, no – not at all, Jasmine." He smiled again and rose from his seat. "Thank you for the conversation, my dear."

"Oh. You're welcome?" Myla very much doubted that she had offered anything to the conversation that he had enjoyed. "It was nice to meet you." She called over her shoulder, as Jasmine was already pulling her toward the door.

Oswald ignored the awkward struggle between the pair on their way outside."Have a wonderful day, ladies." He said softly.

Jazz was able to flash a quick, professional smile to her boss and, maintaining her tight grip on Myla, continued to drag her away.

The moment the door clocked shut, Jasmine turned on her cousin. "What the fuck, Myla." She hissed. "Why the hell would you go in there asking for me?"

"You weren't out front – I waited as long as I could." Myla replied, angrily yanking her arm back. "I just got worried. Sorry."

"Well, next time, you can just leave me, okay? I'm a big girl, who can take a cab or the rails home." Jasmine sighed, rubbing her temples. She was too hungover to deal with this. Damn Paul. "Just...you can not go in there again. It's not safe for an innocent little baby like you."

Myla ignored her in favor of fishing the car keys out of her purse. She didn't know what Jasmine's problem was on this particular morning, but she hated being treated like a child. She was old enough to set foot in a bar if she wanted.

"Oh, and – AND – what we're doing talking to my boss?" Jazz continued.

"He just...sat down and started talking, I don't know." Myla bit her tongue. Why did Jasmine even care?

"Yeah? About what?"

"I don't know." Maybe she deserved to be called a baby, because the way her voice became a whine as she stepped off the sidewalk and rounded the car was definitely making her seem like one. "If I was applying, what I did for work and all that. We only talked for literally two minutes."

"Did you tell him?" Her cousin's tone became almost panicked. "Did you tell him where you worked?"

"I mean, I told him that I work in a bakery. Nothing super specific or anything." She lied. Myla mentally ran through her conversation with Mr. Cobblepot, assessing what information might be considered "too much". Like the area of the bakery she worked in, and what type of bakery it was, and what she did at the bakery. Oh – and where she went to school, and that she took night classes. Damn it – she was always doing this. Jasmine had every right to act so protective.

After climbing into the passengers seat, Jasmine touched Myla on the shoulder. "Myla, sweetie, look at me." She instructed softly. Myla looked over for just a moment, then went back to buckling her seat belt. "Look at me, please."

She looked.

"I may have overreacted, but still – I don't ever want to see you, or hear about you being at my job ever again. If I'm not outside within a few minutes, you can just go, I'll be fine, alright? It's sweet that you were worried, but don't do that again, understand?" Although Jasmine tried to keep her voice firm, with a very motherly hint of sternness, but it was laced with a conspicuous amount of fear.

"Okay."

"Also," Jasmine couldn't believe she even had to be saying this, "don't talk to my boss again. Ever. Even if it's not in the club, don't talk to him."

Myla frowned. "Yeah, alright."

Jasmine shot a look, frustrated. "I feel like you're not really getting it."

"I mean, I guess not. Honestly the guy seems more...odd, than harmful – or whatever it is you're trying to imply."

Jasmine let out a dry laugh and shook her head, further aggravating the splitting headache she was currently suffering through."I'm sorry, but oh, my sweet, naive baby cousin. I swear..." She paused, and tried to look more serious for the moment. "Listen – Penguin is the type of man who wouldn't think twice about stabbing someone who looked at him wrong. Seriously, you'd be wise to keep your distance."

Penguin. What a strange moniker for this supposedly murderously violent club owner to go by, but Myla nodded in understanding anyway, and started the car. She had to admit, that last part of her cousins warning got her thinking – even frightened her a little. As she pulled away from the curb, the glowing umbrella still visible in the side mirror, a shiver ran down Myla's spine as she wondered if she had really just been speaking with a murderer.


	2. Chapter 2

**_If anyone notices any spelling errors or apparently missing/auto-corrected words/phrases in this draft, PLEASE TELL ME. Y'all have no idea what it was like to realize that the very first word of the very first chapter - which had been up for OVER A YEAR - was a misspell. I swear my soul left my body for a minute. It only takes a minute to help a bitch out._**

 ** _Thanks - Penny_**

* * *

It's such an exciting thing to both say and here – the phrase holds so much promise within itself.

"I met someone the other day."

Edward glanced up from the case files he had been shifting through. "Oh."

Oswald nodded, expression wistful but voice remaining solemn, almost nonchalant. "I always leave through the back, Ed – there's never a reason for me to check the front after closing, but on my way out, I thought of a question for Paul. Paul ended up not being there – she was." Her dress may as well have been a spotlight, instantly drawing his gaze the moment he entered the room.

"What, a barfly?" Edward snorted.

"No, her cousin works for me." Oswald informed Edward crossly. "She was there to pick her up."

"Hm." The sharp correction left Edward smirking. "Did you talk to her?"

Oswald said, settling back comfortably into his chair. "For a minute to two, yes. I got a name, at least."

"No number?"

"No." Oswald frowned at the memory. "We were interrupted by the cousin – my employee. She appeared quite distraught to see the girl speaking to me. They fought outside for a bit, and that gave Gabe the chance to tail them. I'd like to figure out some way to meet her again."

"Good." In all honestly, the thought of Oswald gaining a new companion was a welcome one. The man's need for companionship had a tendency to fluctuate dramatically, depending on business and his overall mood, and dealing with him sometimes grew bothersome. There wouldn't be so much as a text for several days at a time. Other times, Edward would find himself constantly summoned to Oswald's side, staying over for weeks strait. It wasn't as though Edward didn't enjoy his time with his dear Mr. Penguin, of course, but he was also a man who appreciated his privacy, having time set aside for "hobbies" and such – a trait which Oswald was often very unforgiving of. In the last year, he had grown to thoroughly expect everyone to be on "his" time. Even friends. Even lovers.

"She seems quite trusting." Oswald continued. "Given the chance, had I been able to spend just five more minutes with her, I might have gotten her class schedule."

"A student?" That certainly piqued Edward's interest, abet in a concerned way.

"A university student, Ed – I'm not some predatory pervert." Oswald bristled at the implication. "Although she is, admittedly, a bit younger than I would prefer."

Edward shrugged. "Maroni and Falcone bedded their share of teenage girls – even outside their prime."

"Teenager? Good lord, no. She's...twenty-two? Twenty-one?" It was on a piece of paper somewhere on his desk, but he had only paid attention to her birth date long enough to be informed that she wasn't the "baby" her cousin pushed her as. Even the idea of being with someone barely off the cusp of girlhood made his stomach churn. When he was informed otherwise, it felt safe to go back to the thoughts of Myla's smooth skin and dark hair, those long eyelashes framing her incredibly large, green eyes. Her smile, charming and bright, even as she was being dragged out of his club. Oswald very much wanted to see her smile at him like that again.

He looked back over to Edward, who had gone back to his files. Sweet, dear Edward, with his tousled hair, still in pajamas. Oswald recalled quite vividly just how hard he had been gripping that hair mere hours ago, and glimpsed the faint bruises and bite marks he had left just beneath the collar. Oswald thought briefly about being that rough with Myla, but she was so much smaller, so slight, he wondered if he even could. No matter, he thought to himself. He could simply keep Edward around to satisfy those kinds of needs. Standing up, Oswald walked around the table to his tall, handsome nerd, kissing the spot behind Edward's ear. The one spot he knew always made him break out in goosebumps.

"Think you could spare a few more minutes of your morning for me?"

"Depends." Edward removed his glasses, setting them down on the table. "Was this triggered by thinking of me, or your new dream girl?"

"You, of course." Oswald murmured, his long fingers brushing against the marks he had left on Edward's collarbone.

"Then...I always have time for you." He sighed contentedly as Oswald kissed his neck, dragging himself up to his feet.

"Really quick, then." Oswald panted, yanking down Edward's pajama bottoms before undoing his belt. "I promise, just really quick."

The promise of "really quick" was more often pointless than not, but Edward didn't say anything in protest, save for letting out a hiss between clenched teeth as Oswald pushed into him. Oswald's nails dug into Edward's hips, creating several new additions of scratches to the list of barely-forms scabs throughout his lover's body. He did actually intend to make the tryst relatively short – keeping his movement forceful and swift, assuring he would cum within minutes, releasing himself inside Ed with a grunt and a sigh.

Oswald hitched his pants back up, making sure to give Edward a kiss on the forehead as a simple gesture of fondness before taking his leave. "We'll speak again soon."

Edward gave him a dazed smile in return. "Sure, Oz. See you soon – good luck with the girl." He watched Oswald hobble to the front door and slip on his jacket, before grabbing his cane from the corner and leaving.

Somewhere between the front door and the stairs, Oswald decided he needed to see Myla again. There was a slight chill to their air outside, and the wind blew pleasantly across his face as he walked toward the car, where Gabe was already waiting, pulling the door open for his boss to slide into his seat.

"Take me to that bakery again."

* * *

His heart picked up speed as Oswald peered into the bakery from the car. Myla was there, her beautiful, long hair spilling over her shoulders as she leaned against the counter, smiling as she chatted with her customer. He found himself smiling too.

Oswald had rarely bothered himself with the thought of love. In a life mainly dominated by desire for power, control, and vengeance, there was simply not much room for love in him. The love he had to offer went to his mother, because why wouldn't it? There was a great feeling of fondness for Edward, but he considered his feelings to be more about the human needs of companionship and lust. That wasn't to say he was uncaring toward Edward, just that he felt Myla could serve a different set of needs. He remembered the odd sense of warmth from being in her presence, her aura of kindness almost tangible. That smile – God – that smile. It felt impossible for such a lovely, sunny, and genuine smile to exist in a city so bleak. It felt silly to admit, but her wanted her for that. Wanted her to become everything he needed, become her everything so he could harness that feeling for himself.

As for how to begin such a romance, Oswald found himself at a bit of a loss. This was a very new thing to him, the need to create a bond with another person this way. It would need to be something special. Something no one could refuse.

But it was best not to rush these things, or so Oswald told himself. He could probably stroll into the bakery and ask her on a date, but there were many more things that had been concerning before Myla began her invasion of his thoughts. Still being the new reigning King Of Gotham crime meant he was an extremely busy man, after all. A busy, high-target of a man. Certain precedents needed to be put in place, and a girl – no matter how lovely – would not be responsible for any loss of respect. It was far too early in his career for anyone to think he could be made soft so easily. He rolled up the window.

"I would like for you to continue following Miss Kozak. Take a week – perhaps two" Oswald ordered Gabriel. "Make note of her schedule, the places she frequents. If at all possible, I would like a list of names regarding the people she frequents – I need to be absolutely positive she isn't someone's pawn." Wouldn't want to be made a fool of, like Falcone at the end with his Liza.

"Alright." Gabe answered simply. Oswald felt the car shift into drive, and pull out onto the street. Myla would be paid his attention later, he assured himself.

For now, there was business to attend to.


	3. Chapter 3

Myla Kozak was a girl of simplicity and routine. Wake at four. Toast and tea. Dress and flats. Blush and liner. Pick up Jazz. Work. School. Homework. Sleep. Occasional free time in-between, but only when she could make the time.

For as long as she could remember, it was always how she'd preferred things. There was a great comfort to be found in the sense of normalcy these little facets of her life provided.

Weeks passed and the temperature cooled. The summer dressed found themselves being pushed toward the back of the closet, making way for darker shades of lace and thick skirts to be paired with oversized sweaters and patterned tights. In the mornings, Myla would pull her hair back into a bun or ponytail to keep it from blowing all about when she left the apartment.

And she had all but forgotten about that warning conversation with her cousin when the first of the roses came.

At the time, she didn't know it was for her – but rather thought someone had dropped it, as it wasn't marked for her in any way. The rose was a simple treasure, a welcome start to the long day ahead of her as she arrived for work that morning. It wasn't until three more appeared in the same fashion that she began to consider someone might be leaving them on purpose. A basic run of asking the shop revealed that the flowers were only ever there when she came in – never on her days off. On the fourth day, she noticed it was placed much too close to the door to have been dropped there by accident.

The realization was only a mild concern at first. Maybe if they had been showing up at her apartment rather than her work she would have panicked, but really anyone can find out where someone works. Myla didn't think to tell anyone, or report it – they were just flowers, after all. Who takes a stalking claim seriously when all the person was doing was leaving flowers? Instead she made the best of them: she would place the solitary rose in a glass of the counter for the day, and at home she strung it up over her windowsill to dry out.

As for who might be doing all this, well, Myla didn't have any ideas. The shop's clientele was almost exclusively engaged couples, and honestly, the idea of an engaged person attempting to woo her was somehow worse than the thought that she was almost definitely being stalked. In her handful of classes at the University, she hadn't noticed anyone in particular checking her out. Maybe it was a new neighbor, or someone who worked in another shop near the bakery. As long as they weren't married, she could appreciate – a little – the fact that this person had something of a sense of romance.

On day eighth day she received a bouquet. It was simple: white roses, the stems wrapped together with twine. Myla brought them home, placing them on the kitchen table for her aunt to enjoy.

That was the day Jasmine noticed, asking "What's with the flowers?"

"I think someone's been leaving them for me." Actually she was positive at this point that someone was leaving them for her, but didn't want Jasmine to act weird about it.

"What? Who?" Despite the effort, Jasmine still became uncharacteristically nervous at the news.

"I don't know." Myla shrugged. "If I knew, I wouldn't call them 'someone'."

And that was the end of that conversation.

But it wasn't the end of the flowers. The bouquets kept coming, and getting increasingly more elaborate. They came in lush bunches of roses and ranunculus' and anemone embellished with feather plumes and fiddleheads, their stems tied up in strips of lace or satin ribbons. They were beautiful, but Myla stopped bringing them home – while she didn't bother to ask about them anymore, they still made Jasmine uneasy, and she complained that they made the apartment smell like a funeral home. Now they stayed the bakery, where her bosses and co-workers found the sudden influx of floral arrangements amusing more than anything. She would hand out single flowers to customers: a lot of girls from a school nearby frequented the shop after class, and many brides-to-be had begun requesting the flowers to show as an example to their planners and florists, which Myla happily obliged.

But Myla couldn't say that Jasmine's weirdly terrified attitude toward the flowers wasn't beginning to rub off on her; another week of them had definitely left her wary of the daily gift. She had seen enough wedding notebooks at her job to know a bridal bouquet when she saw one – and she also knew that the quality of the ones she was being sent meant these ones were not cheap. Who could afford such a frivolous expense like that every day? Not anyone she knew, that was for sure. Once again, the question as to why this person hadn't revealed themselves was brought to her mind, front and center. This was overkill – a few days of the single roses would have been plenty sufficient to get a yes on a date.

When she clocked in on Thursday, however, she was surprised to find no flowers to greet her at the start of her shift. An unexpected change that left her unsure whether she was relieved or disappointed, because despite it all, Myla had been slightly enjoying the new, bright introduction to her day. Very briefly, she wondered if she had done something wrong. Or, perhaps something serious had happened – like an accident – and Myla felt suddenly concerned for the well-being of her flower-leaving stranger. Unfortunately, whether they were fine or not, Myla's work day had to continue, with or without flowers.

Thursdays were usually pretty slow at the bakery, mostly a lot of customers checking on an order for the weekend. Her boss, Jerry, ended up coming out to tell her she could lock out at lunch if she wanted, which Myla was glad to take him up on. There was no class on Thursdays either, which meant a few hours of solid "me time" - a nice bath, a movie, or maybe call up friend she hadn't had time for in a while. These were the sort of things Myla considered to be an exciting use of her free time. After grabbing her purse out of cubby, she walked back out front to retrieve the half-finished homework from the shelf under the register, and was faced with a new bouquet on the counter.

Myla froze, suddenly uncomfortable in the familiar storefront. She almost called Jerry over in a panic, because how had they been so quick? So quiet? Very cautiously, and wondering if perhaps someone might still be inside the room with her, she approached the counter. The arrangement of hyacinth and peonies was simpler than many of the others she had received, but it came with one distinguishing feature the others had lacked – a card. A card which her shaking hands opened to reveal handwriting – real, actual handwriting – stating a time and address. She sucked in her breath and looked back up at the flowers, feeling excited and scared and curious all at once. Clearly this meant that she was meant to meet this person. She was meeting this person _today_. Finally, there would be a name and face to put to all of this. Myla carried the vase out to her car, not entirely sure what she would do with them, but knowing she didn't want to leave them behind, and began the short drive home. Had she decided if all of this was more romantic than it was creepy? What would she wear? What would she even say? What if this person was, in fact, a complete stranger? How weird would it be to start a conversation with someone who seemed to know at least a bit about you, yet you knew nothing of them? All she could glean about this person was that they apparently knew a pretty fantastic florist, which was an interesting tidbit, but not exactly anything to go off of.

Myla glanced at the clock, seeing there was still a ways before the time on the card. It was sort of lucky that she had been given the rest of the day off, otherwise she would have had to go in her plain dress and tights combo, which was also sporting a fair amount of powdered sugar and a few smudges of frosting.

Even luckier because no one would be home at this time to interrogate her on where she was going or who she would be with. Well, basically no one, but Jasmine would be asleep for another hour or two, and was the heaviest sleeper in the family. Just in case, Myla made a mental plan to quickly snatch an outfit from the closet and dash out again, swapping out her vanity in favor of the restaurant bathroom. Jasmine kept what she called "the emergency touch-up kit" hidden in the backseat that would provide her with everything else she would need to fix herself up.

The course of action was certainly a much "sneakier" thing than Myla would usually ever think of attempting, but the idea of dealing with Jazz or Aunt Liv's ideas on blind dates wasn't something she wanted to deal with at the moment. They were clearly more than a little disturbed by the flower scenario – if they found out she was setting out to meet the person who had been leaving them? "Overreact" wouldn't even cover it. If they even allowed her to, they would chaperone and make the whole thing more uncomfortable than it was probably bound to be on its own. Wouldn't be the first time they had done that. It was best not to tell them about it until afterward, citing that it was sprung her in such a rush that there simply hadn't been time to inform them – and it would be absolutely true – so long as Jazz didn't wake up, or her aunt didn't come home early.

After opening the front door as quietly as possible, Myla slowly crept through the apartment and into her and Jasmine's shared room. She went strait to the closet and shut the door behind her. After scanning through her side of the closet, she came up empty for ideas on what to wear. There were a few nicer dresses she had, but they were sort of tight, more fit for the clubbing she never got around to doing because she quickly learned that dance clubs are awful. Jasmine's side of closet definitely had some better, more sleek and potentially romantic pieces – but Jazz also had the near-superhuman ability to tell when something went missing out of her clothes. Then Myla remembered The Corner.

The Corner was, obviously, the back corner of the closet – a place where Jasmine put things she was mostly keeping for re-gifting purposes, plus work out clothes with the tags still on from New Years resolutions past. The pile was seldom looked through, and valued less than the rest of Jasmine's wardrobe. It was the best shot Myla had at finding a nice outfit without going out and buying one. She spent a few minutes on the floor, rummaging through the boxes and bags for something suitable, something that would also hopefully fit right. In the middle of the stack, there was a cute pink with gold lettering that Myla was positive would contain lingerie when, lo and behold, it was a dress. Clearly from Jasmine's "vintage aesthetic princess in flower crowns" phase, it was chiffon, short, and black, with flowery embroidery on the bodice and butterfly sleeves. Very pretty, date-appropriate, already matched the shoes she was wearing, and also wouldn't come off like she tried too hard. Myla carefully stacked everything else from the pile back into place, sneaking back out of the closet with the pink box tucked under her arm.

Jasmine was knocked out, still sprawled out in her bed in the same exact position she was in half an hour ago, bless her. Myla bit her tongue as she edged her way out of the room. This was the moment she would either be caught or get away with it. She had never experienced this type of fear when it came to her family, and it was pretty exciting, if she was being honest with herself. This feeling must have been why Jasmine was always sneaking out.

As she stood in the hallway, her key sliding the deadbolt in place behind her, she felt almost sort of accomplished, and as a result suddenly much more excited about the night ahead of her. While there wasn't a doubt that she would feel incredibly guilty about this later, for the moment, Myla was feeling pretty good about what was going happen.


	4. Chapter 4

The address on the card belonged to a small bistro not very far from where Jasmine worked, that they frequented quite often for breakfast on Myla's mornings off, and occasionally the much more crowded Sunday Brunch.

Today, the drive to the restaurant felt surreal, like she was running on autopilot. The adrenaline rush Myla had received for all her efforts of sneaking around was starting to wear off, sending her back to wondering if she was really going through with this. Just like the hour before, she didn't have a clear answer for herself. As intriguing as the scenario was, on the flip side, it really did seem like a bad decision. She could already hear Jasmine in her ear, screaming her signature line - "What the hell were you thinking?". Then she would be sat down on the sofa while Jazz and Liv came together to interrogate her on every detail, rattling off stories from the news about how many girls were kidnapped or date raped every year in Gotham to really bring home the guilt and shock value.

Well, at least if the date turned out to be a dud, she wouldn't have to say anything. Her family had stopped asking about the flowers – and whomever might be sending them – meaning she could let the whole thing run its course without having anything to "cover up".

After finding a good parking space, Myla reached into the back seat to grab the Jasmine's "emergency" purse. It was a very ugly, bulky thing, but the purpose wasn't for it to look good. Myla had watched this very kit save Jasmine in a pinch when she was late for dates and interviews and work – and she was always late. She hitched up the heavy bag higher on her shoulder and crossed the street.

Even at just a glance through the window, Myla noted that the bistro was emptier than usual. Almost completely empty. This was usually such a popular spot. Granted, she had never been here for dinner before, but when she and Jasmine would eat there, eight times out of ten no reservation meant waiting a good hour for a table. Even stranger – there was no one present at the hostess stand, and there wasn't an employee in sight. After waiting around for a minute more, because it's bad manners not to, Myla gave up and walked strait to the bathroom.

Setting the bag down on the counter, Myla began sifting through the chaotic contents. It took a good minute or two of rummaging, but eventually she located a brush and some bobby pins, and unearthed the tube of lipstick as well. All she really needed for makeup was a touch-up on her liner. She took out the band holding up her ponytail, and made a couple braids before reworking her hair into a twist. After double-checking the lock on the bathroom door, she quickly undressed and zipped herself into the borrowed outfit. It fit surprisingly well – a bit loose up top, but judging by the style the dress didn't appear made to be form-fitting anyway. Myla looked at her reflection, deciding she looked very nice, and definitely pretty enough to suffer through a potentially awkward date and still come out feeling on top. She gathered everything back into the purse and went back into the restaurant, clutching the maybe-maybe-not-to-wear lipstick in her hand while she walked back to her car to put everything away.

As Myla weaved through the empty chairs and tables on her way to the entrance, she was once again struck by the emptiness of the place. Sure it was a Thursday afternoon, but it was after five now – there should have at least been a small after-work drinks or early dinner crowd.

With the sun gone, it had gotten rather chilly. Careful not to rip or ruin the ruin the dress she was wearing, Myla waited a few minutes until traffic completely ceased on the street before crossing to her car, stashing the box and bag in her trunk before getting her own purse from the front seat. She noticed the emergency cell phone, flipping it to see that it was just a few minutes away from the time on the card.

This was crazy, she told herself for the thousandth time. Maybe she should call Jasmine – for advice, Myla reasoned. Wait, no, that would just cause Jazz to rush over and spy on her. Should she at least send a text? Something to let them know she might be home a little late? She could say she was out with friends, at the very least. That was harmless, right? The streetlight flickered above her, and Myla remembered how cold she was getting. She snatched up the phone, and a coat for the walk back.

A few more people were inside now, which was comforting. The whole point of meeting someone in public for the first time is to have that social buffer, after all. There was also a hostess behind the stand at the door.

"Name?" The hostess asked, smiling brightly.

"M-Myla?" Myla replied. Her voice was full of uncertainty as she found herself hit with the full force of her nerves. "I'm supposed to be meeting someone, but -" Before she could finish, the hostess was beckoning her forward, heels clicking against the wood floor she led her further into the restaurant. They walked past dozens more empty tables before she was finally sat down and given a menu. Myla was usually happy to sit in the back – Jasmine preferred patio seating and the window by the front, but the back was, in Myla's opinion, much better. The roof was all glass, with bulb lights strung across the room. The walls had planters installed in them, overfilling with real greenery, and the floor was cobbled stone. To her, sitting in the back was like being at a garden party. Tonight, it was a very empty garden party, and she was so far away from the other patrons that their voices barely registered as hums. So much for the comfort of being in public.

The emergency phone was burning a hole in her pocket, telling her to call someone, to get advice from Jazz, or inform Liv on what to tell the police when she disappeared or _something_. She stood back up to hang her coat on the back of the chair.

Before Myla could sit back down, she got the acute feeling that someone was staring at her, and paused. Playing casual wasn't one of her strong suits, but she glanced over her shoulder as casually as she could manage.

It was Jasmine's boss. Small world, Myla thought to herself, but this restaurant was fairly close to the club he owned. She guessed it made sense that he might frequent it in the same way many of his employees did. He didn't say anything, his expression a little blank, even after Myla gave him a little smile and wave, but he did start walking toward her. And then he sat down. At her table.

It took a moment, but it clicked.

"Are you disappointed?" Oswald asked, seeming a little hurt by the possibility.

"No – no – it's not that, just...I didn't exactly leave you with that great of an impression." It wasn't like they met on the street or at her job, where she would've had a fighting chance of being taken for bubbly or charming – no, she and Mr. Cobblepot had two-minute conversation on her bakery job, before she was called a "baby" and dragged out his establishment by her arm like you would a child throwing a tempter tantrum. Out of anyone who could have taken the seat across from her, Myla had expected her cousin's boss least of all.

Well, it did explain why the flowers were left at her workplace – "wedding cake shop on west Edwidge" was certainly plenty descriptive.

She was taking too much time thinking, the uncomfortable silence causing Oswald to give her a very strange look. Myla looked down at the table, hands gripping the edge of her seat. This was off to a poor start. Mr. Cobblepot had clearly put a lot of time and effort to make everything leading up to this much more special than Myla had ever expected to see from anyone attempting to date her, and she was likely coming off as incredibly ungrateful. Probably superficial, too.

"That's a nice dress. You look very lovely in it." Oswald hoped the compliment might settle her a little a bit, although it was almost enjoyable (in a cliché sort of way) seeing her so shy and panicked.

He was wearing a suit, just like he was when they met. Who even wears suits on first dates anymore? It was so strange to her to think some people still made the effort to look so posh on the daily. Myla always wore dresses, sure, but she hadn't been this dolled up for anything since, what, prom? And before that, never? Even in her aesthetic-queen getup, she felt woefully undressed next to Oswald. Maybe she should have put on that lipstick – lipstick always takes things up another notch.

"Thank you." Myla replied politely. "I borrowed it from Jasmine."

"Oh, you told her about tonight?"

"Ah, no, actually. She's spied on my dates before, and it's not fun." After her admission, a realization hit her like a sack of bricks. Oh God, Jasmine. Jasmine who practically suffered a heart attack after seeing Myla and Oswald making the most boring conversation ever. Jasmine who had more or less stated that her boss was some murder-happy lunatic. The date quickly shifted from awkward and confusing to tense. Jasmine was going to murder her. Or maybe he would get to that first. Maybe that would be preferable.

Oswald watched the way Myla suddenly went rigid – the anxiety radiating off her. "She does seem quite protective of you."

"Quite." She agreed. Now Myla definitely wished she had called someone. They could have checked on her, or given her an out. A return favor on all those years of being the "fake emergency call", but noooo – she didn't want people to worry. Didn't want anyone to tell her it was a bad idea.

The date moved very slowly from that point on. He would attempt to talk with her, earning only very short, stiff answers in response. It didn't take long for Myla to start feeling bad about it, and started contributing a little more. She didn't want him to like her, but surely there was a way to accomplish that without looking like an awful person. It was a balancing act – not wanting to look too interesting, without resorting to rudeness – so she kept mum on topics that would ordinarily excite her, and also shied away from certain questions. Like, was he as violent as it was implied of him? Or how old he was, because he seemed a ways enough older than her that it would sound overly negative.

Things slowed down again when food was brought out. Myla disliked eating in front of people as a general rule, but the pressure was on when eating in front of date. Especially one who won't stop staring at you. Even taking small bites, she felt like she was making a mess of herself, and would've gladly kissed the server who finally took their food away if she could. Oswald helped her put her coat back on, like the gentleman he was, and walked her to her car.

When all the said and done, Myla supposed the ninety minutes or so behind them had been spent with her coming off as unnecessarily cold, and definitely suffering from some issue that prevented her from eating like a normal functioning human adult. So it definitely came as a surprise when she heard Mr. Cobblepot say "I would like to take you out again."

Myla hesitated. She had "sort of" decided that she didn't entirely believe him to be, in fact, a crazy murder junkie. There had been a good amount of strain to their first date (courtesy of her), but Oswald had been surprisingly polite and respectful despite it all. The entire affair, while wholly unexpected, hadn't been a bad experience – thinking back on it, she didn't actually mind it at all. And he had gone through so much trouble to secure this date with her in the first place. Really, Myla was beginning to feel it would be in bad taste to say no. And so she smiled. "Sure. Maybe something a bit simpler next time?"

He smiled back. "Of course."

"Oh – one second." Myla reached into her purse, locating the pen and mini notepad she kept on hand for when Jerry asked her to make lunch or grocery runs, and wrote down her number as neatly as she could before handing the paper to Oswald. "Here. It's technically an emergency phone, and I'm honestly kind of bad at checking it, so don't be offended if I don't get back to you right away." She laughed nervously.

"You don't have your own cell phone?"

Myla shook her head. "I've done fine living without one."

"Just barely, I'll bet, in this day and age." Oswald tucked her number into his pocket. "I hope to see you again, Myla, I really do." When she unlocked her car door, he pulled it open for her to climb inside, waving at her from the sidewalk as she drove off.

After pulling up to her street, Myla spent several minutes sitting in her car, pulling her coat tighter around her frame while she thought of what might go wrong when she walked up to the apartment. She almost wished she had thought to change back into her powdered sugar and frosting-encrusted outfit from earlier, even though Jasmine's stylish trench would have hidden that dress just as completely as the one she was wearing now. A few more seconds, and she finally removed the key from the ignition, quickly walking inside the building and up to her floor.

Aunt Liv was settled into her usual night perch on the sofa, looking drowsy as she watched her sitcom reruns. She gave Myla a tired smile when she walked through the door.

"Where were you tonight?" She asked, muting the television.

Myla froze at the question, even though it was far from an interrogation sent from her worst nightmare. "Jen invited me to a study group." She lied. "Finals are coming up quick, you know?"

"Oh, Okay." The lie passed her aunts defenses unnoticed, as did the fact that finals were still several weeks down the road. "Did you already eat? There's some leftovers if you want."

"Yeah, yeah, we ordered in."

"Alright." Liv un-muted her show, satisfied with her nieces' alibi, because why wouldn't she be?

Myla's heart sank to the pit of her stomach. This wasn't like earlier in the day, where Myla had gotten a rush from being sneaky. It's one thing to sneak around an empty apartment, and another to lie to someones face.


	5. Chapter 5

One thing that everyone could agree on about Myla, no matter how begrudgingly, was that she was a good person. She minded her own business, never caused any sort of trouble. She hung out with other nice people and made excellent grades.

More importantly, Myla didn't lie – especially not to anyone in her family. The best she could manage was a very obvious misdirection, and it wouldn't even be for her sake. There had never been a reason for her to lie. Liv and her uncle were...understanding, enough. Jasmine could be harsh, but Myla always knew that her cousin was just looking out for her.

A prime example of Jasmine looking out for her was when she had given out that warning about Mr. Cobblepot. That would have been a novel thing for Myla to have heeded. She had just forfeited her best chance at letting him down easy, instead agreeing to a second date, which would, in turn, become another night where she would have to lie about her whereabouts.

Myla sighed as she finally took off her coat, the feeling of shame and regret from her lie already burning her up from the inside.

Just one more date – that couldn't hurt. If you don't feel it, you don't it, right? Even he had to understand that. Maybe. Like how now Myla was wondering if "maybe" everything Jasmine knew about her boss was simply a collection of wild rumors. Wouldn't be the first time her cousin had taken a rumor too far, she noted. Myla felt herself calming down. One more date couldn't be that bad. Maybe the next date wouldn't be as awkward, and she would find out they had things in common – like book tastes or teacup collections. The universe works in strange ways, she reminded herself. Surely there was no harm in seeing if these dates were even going somewhere before needing to tell anyone about it. Jasmine did this sort of thing literally all the time; her current ratio of guys dated versus guys brought home for the family to meet was around five to one.

The lie was beginning to feel almost rational now. Myla got ready for bed, carefully tucking the borrowed dress back into its box and wedging it back into place in The Corner.

Everything would turn out fine.

* * *

The flowers quickly ceased their daily appearances, allowing life to more or less return to normal. Work and school were able to resume, free of the nagging thoughts of stalking and such. Myla's family didn't appear to be particularly suspicious of anything, or at least if they were they had the sense not to talk about it.

Oswald still hadn't called her, prompting Myla to assume that after their first date he had realized that he hadn't actually had that great of a time after all. The whole thing ran its course, just like she told herself it would.

A week or two passed, and he moved away from the front of her mind. She had papers due, and it was pumpkin spice season at the bakery. Her small family was already starting to put together ideas for Thanksgiving dinner, and Jasmine had a very eventful night of partying planned for them on Halloween. Well, eventful for her at least, because Myla was the designated driver.

More than anything, Myla wanted to back out. Halloween night as a grown up is cold and miserable, everyone is drunk and touchy, and it had been raining buckets all day. It didn't end there – when she went to recycle her old Mary Poppins costume (for the umbrella, of course), Jasmine forced a few revisions for it out of her closet: namely a much shorter skirt, and a practically sheer button-up. Jasmine was a mermaid, which meant she was basically just wearing a pair of shiny leggings, a shell-bedazzled bra, and way too much glitter.

The first stops were the parties of a few personal friends. Those weren't bad, because it was early enough in the night for everyone to be sober enough to make good conversation. The big one that Jasmine had been hyped for all day was taking place later, at an abandoned factory in East End, which had a solid reputation for being "absolutely wild". Four other girls managed to cram their way inside the wagon, with Jasmine's promise that she would score them a free entry. A promise she made good on. Paul from Oswald's club was the guy who guided them into the party. As they waded through the mass of drunks, fog, and strobe lights, Myla wondered if his boss was around, having suddenly remembered that he never called her back, but she was supposed to be grateful for that.

While Jasmine and the girls more or less instantly threw themselves into the crowd, Myla walked to the other end of the building, where Paul informed her there was a bar that didn't entirely contain booze. He gave her a fifty.

About twenty minutes were spent awkwardly standing off to the side, but her patience was rewarded with a seat on the side of the bar. Myla worried that if she hid out in some random corner, she might be left behind. This wasn't the place she wanted to experience a repeat of her twenty-first birthday, where everyone else got drunk and left her. The entire floor was within view of her new perch, and chances were her group would come around for drinks semi-regularly.

"You gonna order something?"

"Yeah can I just have like, a soda or Red Bull or something?"

The barkeep handed her a cup of Sprite. "Seven bucks."

She gave him the ten out of her wallet and didn't receive change. Whatever.

One good thing about loud party spaces is that if you don't want to talk to someone, it's very easy (and often true anyway) to act like you don't hear them, and they eventually stop trying. The swivel chair she was occupying was also good for this. Between the two, Myla was able to successfully avoid every person who attempted to do more than stare in her direction. She usually wasn't one for pettiness or sulking, but damn if she just really did not want to be here.

The music suddenly cut out – booze on the equipment. It was out of commission for all of ten seconds, before Myla was the recipient of a very clear "Hey" behind her. Without the aide of blaring music as an excuse, she suppressed a sigh, and swiveled around. She was greeted by a man in biker getup – tattoo-printed shirt, a cheap, long blonde wig...but a very real, if a little sparse, goatee.

"Ohhhh." The man snapped his fingers, like a thought just occurred to him. "Mary Poppins."

Myla didn't answer, only smiled, waiting for another "naughty boy" comment. By God, she was never letting Jasmine dress her for anything again.

"That was my favorite movie growing up."

Hm. Unexpected. "Sorry to ruin your childhood memory with this awful costume."

"You are not ruining anything at all, trust me." There it was – the dirty tone she had slowly been getting accustomed to all night. "Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm not actually drinking." Myla lifted her cup, as if her solo was somehow distinguishable from all the booze-filled ones in the building. "This is Sprite."

"Designated driver?" He looked almost disappointed.

"Yeah." That reminded Myla of Jasmine, and the other girls. Myla scanned the dance floor for her group, coming up empty. No. If she got ditched again... "Supposed to be, anyway."

The man looked to the dance floor again, wondering if someone was signaling her. "Huh?"

Myla hopped down from her seat. "Sorry, I have to go look for them."

"I'm sure they wouldn't ditch their DD."

"Oh, but they would." She mumbled. They had before. All the damn time. Enough times to where Myla was pissed she kept falling for Jasmine's whole "What if you don't come, and I'm found in a ditch tomorrow morning?" guilt-trip line.

"Okay then. I guess it's smart to look for them while the party's still on pause, but first," he handed her a new, full cup, "another soda, for my favorite British nanny. I hope to see you later. Hopefully, reunited with your friends."

Myla returned the smile. At least the interaction hadn't been a total waste, as she had been wary of dropping another ten on a cup of Sprite. She waded her way through the damn floor, trying to take advantage of the stillness of the crowd before -

The lights went off again, music blasting. She had really underestimated how much louder it would be on the dance floor – she was so caught off guard, it very nearly threw her balance. And the crowd became very tight around her; it felt like trying to stick your arm through one of those squishy tubes.

And maybe it was just a combination of the people, noise, lights, and fog, but Myla suddenly wasn't feeling that great. Sort of sleepy – dizzy?

Outside. Myla needed the air. Maybe that's what Jasmine and the other girls had needed too, or maybe they went for a smoke.

As the door shut behind her, Myla suddenly remembered her jacket was inside. With her phone. The door was not meant to open from the outside, no matter how hard Myla yanked on it and said "come on". Would she even be able to get back in without Paul? She did not think this through. It was starting to feel hard to think in general, though. God, she hated parties. She hated Halloween – it was raining and freezing, and her jacket was inside. And her umbrella. Someone would definitely make off with that. The only other person prepared with an umbrella she had seen all night was the man standing six feet in front of her.

It looked fancy, with a carved silver handle and everything.

He probably had a phone, too. Shoot, Myla was willing to let that guy awkwardly stare and make gross comments on her costume all damn night if he would let her stand under the umbrella for a few minutes while she tried to call someone. She sure wasn't going to get any warmer or dryer standing outside the factory door.

After shifting back and forth on her feet for a minute, trying to psyche herself up for another interaction with a potential pervert, she finally approached the man, and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me, sorry, but do you have a phone I could borrow?"

"Miss Kozak?"

This night really was turning out to be just the worst. She knew that potential pervert – except it wasn't a pervert, it was Jasmine's boss. The man who took her on the awkward first date of a lifetime, said he would call her, and didn't.

"Heyyyy….Mr. Cobblepot." Myla was never going out on Halloween again. She would wait until she had kids to take trick-or-treating, like adults were meant to do. Oswald was definitely looking like the better adult between the two of them – with his perfectly tailored suit and all. It didn't even occur to her how odd it was that he would be at a party like this, in this part of town, dressed like that.

"You should really have a coat on." He told her, in an almost scolding tone, like the proper adult he was.

"Yes, very perceptive." She crossed her arms tighter over her chest. "Unfortunately, I left it inside. And I'm not sure how to get back in."

Mr. Cobblepot motioned someone over. "Kyle, if you would please lend Miss Kozak your coat."

"Kyle", looking every inch the stereotype of a burly bodyguard, did as requested, though Myla was hesitant at first to take it.

"Thank you...Kyle."

With that, Oswald handed Myla his phone. "Who are you supposed to be?"

This would have been easier if Myla were able to point to the parrot handle of the umbrella she left stranded by the bar. "Mary Poppins," she explained, "but Jazz turned me into more of a...hooker nanny." Or, as Jasmine had so eloquently put it "the nanny who definitely bangs the father after putting the kids to bed". She tried to type Jasmine's number, but the numbers seemed to switch.

Oswald offered a dry chuckle. "You're here with her, then?"

"Yeah...that's why I came out here. I lost her..." Myla shook her head. That weird, lightheaded feeling was getting more persistent. "Plus I wanted the air. I'm not feeling so great right now."

"Have you been drinking?"

"Nooo." Why did she keep shaking her head? She probably looked weird, or even stupid. Stop it. "I'm the designated driver." Always was. "I had, like, two soda's at the bar, and that's it."

Oswald looked around them, noticing the man lingering by the entrance who avoided his stare a bit too quickly. A pig for the slaughterhouse if he ever saw one.

"How about I take you back inside?" He offered. "You can go upstairs, and make your phone calls, and wait for Jasmine someplace dry and quiet."

Under normal circumstances, Myla probably would have passed, but she wasn't getting anywhere with the numbers on this phone at the moment. "Yeah, um...that sounds alright." She took Oswald's arm when it was offered to her, and he led them back to the party through some back entrance, around the dance floor, and up the stairs.

Was this a panic attack? What was this? She felt hot and sluggish and weird, and didn't like it one bit. Panicking, Myla dragged Oswald down by his lapels. "What's wrong with me?" She asked loudly. Too loudly, even considering the noise surrounding them."Am I dying?"

Having her face suddenly so close to his left Oswald feeling flustered. "N-no. You aren't dying, you've just been…" Oswald paused before he could say the word "drugged". After all, she, like many girls, had been drugged for a very singular purpose. Myla was scared enough without knowing she had been drugged at all – he could only imagine the terror she would feel if she did. Or worse, assumed he was there to take advantage and carry out that purpose. "It might be something you ate. Or the heat – it's very warm in here. And crowded. Probably a lot of sick people, too, I would imagine."

Myla didn't appear to believe him. "So I _could_ be dying." She looked off to the side, and her gaze became unfocused for a moment. "Oh God, I'm going to die a virgin in a skank costume. This can't be happening."

"What?"

"What?" Myla's eyes were more focused again, but only a little. "I didn't say anything."

Oswald did his best to shake off her apparently "private" comment, but felt positive he _had_ heard the word he thought he heard. They resumed their trip upstairs once he effectively unhooked her fingers from the front of his jacket. The blonde-wigged stranger was still maintaining a healthy distance between them, no doubt planning on sinking Oswald with a punch to reclaim his prize. If that poor bastard only knew…

When they reach the room, Oswald waved Butch over, who leaned down to receive his orders. "I would consider it an...immeasurable favor to me if I could find that knockoff Hell's Angel behind me hanging from a meat hook in the next few hours."

He didn't need to be told twice. "You got it."

With that settled, Oswald situated Myla down into a chair.

"Miss Kozak." He said, very calmly. "This is Gabe. Gabe is going sit right here with you until we find Jasmine, alright?"

"I'm very...tired." Her eyebrows knitted together while she spoke, as if she had to think really hard about the things she was feeling, and saying.

"You can sleep if you'd like. I promise no one will bother you."

"Yeah...Okay." Myla closed her eyes.

Oswald slipped his phone out of her palm, and dialed Paul.

"Boss?"

"You're still seeing Jasmine, are you not?"

Oswald could hear a frantic whisper on the other end. Paul and Jasmine had likely been fooling around all this time. "Uh, I am, boss?"

"I just came across dear Jasmine's cousin – drugged," he bit down on his tongue, hard, "- at the East End rave. Are you still here?"

"Well, I'm right around the corner..."

"I don't care." Oswald said sharply. "Just get here, take Myla back to Jasmine. Make yourself the hero in all this, it doesn't matter, but you do not mention me – understood."

"Yes."

Snapping the phone shut, Oswald looked down at Myla.

This was decidedly not how he wanted to see her again.


	6. Chapter 6

Jasmine chose not to tell Myla what happened on Halloween. If no one got hurt, what point was there in causing a fuss about it? When Myla woke up and asked what happened (a whopping ten hours later), Jasmine told her she was overworked, and she didn't dispute it. Problem solved.

But of course Myla didn't buy it. While the memory of Halloween was spotty, she knew it was dumb to think to had just killed over from exhaustion in the middle of a party. Her schedule was busy, but it was far from keeping her from a proper nights sleep. Unfortunately, there was no arguing with Jasmine – who was stubborn and selfish enough to defend her lies to the grave.

To lighten the mood, Jasmine asked her along to do some early Christmas shopping, driving around town during the first snowfall of the season. Since she was making such good money now, Jasmine led them to an obscure town square of fancy shops, certain that there she would find whatever she needed to give everyone on her list an impressive gift haul. Myla mostly hung around the entrances, nodding at whatever her cousin showed her. Not only did she feel incredibly out of place, but between the flashbacks and the lie, she just wasn't feeling comfortable around Jasmine. Eventually, it was enough to excuse herself to grab a coffee across the street.

Barely a few steps onto the sidewalk, Myla was confronted by a familiar silver-handled umbrella. Familiar because it was the last thing she could remember before she blacked out on Halloween. She wished the man under it had not been familiar as well.

He turned around before Myla had the chance to dart back into the shop, instantly noticing her. "Myla!" Mr. Cobblepot called, walking over to her. He was practically beaming by the time he met up with up her, leaving Myla feeling incredibly conflicted for a reason she couldn't place.

But attempts were made to smile and greet him like she would anyone else. "Nice to see you again, Mr. Cobblepot."

"There's no need for that formality." He said. "I wanted to say how sorry I am that I haven't been able to call. Things have been...busy."

"I understand." She assured him. "It's a busy time of year for me anyway."

"Right, right, Holiday planning and all that." Oswald glanced around them. "Are you alone out here?" If there was one thing he had learned about Myla so far, it was that she did not appear to fare well when left alone.

"No, I'm helping Jasmine with some shopping." Myla tore her eyes away from the silver handle long enough to turn to the shop she had just exited. Clearly Jasmine wasn't paying any attention to her right this moment, otherwise they would have been interrupted by now. She could just picture it – Jasmine bursting out the door, setting off alarms because she couldn't be bothered to set down the merchandise before butting into their conversation. "I was ducking out to get a coffee, if you want to join me." They needed to get out of the direct area, at least. Every second they lingered in front of the large shop windows was a risk.

Before answering, Oswald checked his watch. He had plenty of time. Honestly, even if he didn't, he would have gladly spared twenty minutes of it to sit across from the girl he was attempting to woo. "With this weather, that sounds lovely."

They walked in silence through people and snow to the cafe on the corner Myla noticed earlier. Inside was quiet – not empty, but quiet. Perfect. She got hot chocolate with peppermint. He ordered black coffee. She wanted a brownie too, but thought back to how awkward she felt eating in front of him the first time and decided against it. After standing around exchanging polite small talk while waiting for the drinks, Myla led them to a table away from the windows, and hoped that Jasmine had enough shopping to occupy her for a while.

When they sat down, she started feeling nervous for a different reason. There was no doubt that he had been with her on Halloween. Somewhere in the reaches of those faint memories, she recalled at one point their faces had even been close enough to touch.

"Are you alright?"

"Hm?"

"You seem a little on edge."

"Yeah...it's just that..." She hesitated, not wanting to make him uncomfortable, no matter how desperate she was for answers. "Were you – d-did I see you on Halloween?"

What a turn of events this meeting was becoming. He was surprised she had remembered anything about that night at all. "Yes." There was no point in lying. Oswald watched her face closely as Myla attempted – for what he supposed was another in several dozen tries – to stitch together the events of the party.

Clearly he knew something. "What happened?"

"Jasmine didn't tell you?" He seemed genuinely surprised, causing Myla to wonder just how big was this lie going to be.

"She told me I passed out because I'm overworked." The lie sounded even more ridiculous than it did the morning after the party.

As expected, he looked positively incredulous. "And you believed her?"

"No, of course not, but-"

"Someone drugged you." Oswald figured he may as well rip off the band-aid. "When it began affecting you, you wandered outside to look for Jasmine, and that's how I found you."

"Wow. I knew she lied to me but...I never thought she would lie to me like...This is really serious. I probably should've gone to a hospital, right?" She started feeling a little betrayed. Myla wouldn't have even went to that party if Jasmine hadn't whined about needing her. She put on that embarrassing getup for the occasion and everything. In return she had gotten herself drugged, and Jasmine had the gall to try and cover it up.

"Probably. In any case, I escorted you away from the party and sent Paul to find Jasmine, who took you home." Bad phrasing, making it seem like they had been alone together while she was drugged. It was clear from the look on her face that she was trying to recall the state of her clothes when she awoke on November first.

"I wasn't untoward." He couldn't stress than enough. "I actually left shortly after."

"But Jasmine," Myla said slowly, "she knows?"

"That you were drugged?" Oswald asked. "Yes, of course."

"No, I mean...She knows about you?"

"What about me?"

Myla looked back down at the table.

"Ah, you never told her about our date, did you?" The news was bit of a blow, even if he could understand her reasoning. "Is this really that much of an issue for her? Me even simply being present around you?"

"I guess, yeah." She answered nervously.

"Because I'm her boss."

"Partially." Myla had to choose her words carefully. Pissed as she was, it wouldn't do to get her cousin in trouble. "She's been pretty vague about it, but it's been….implied...that you're sort of…dangerous." She glanced up from her coffee, awaiting his reaction.

Well, he knew this conversation was bound to present itself eventually. Fortunately, it didn't sound as though Jasmine had too candid in indulging Myla with dramatic retellings of the club's more violent occurrences. Actually, he believed that Jasmine spoke as little of her job as she could manage to her family, which was good. Vague implication is always good. He could work with that.

"I won't lie, my business certainly does play host to a..less-than savory crowd." It wasn't a lie at all. "Quite frequently, really, but...do _you_ think I'm dangerous?"

"Not particularly." Myla frowned. She thought Oswald was very strange – perhaps the oddity lay in his walk, or the way he dressed, or how politely he spoke – but she had definitely never gotten the vibe from her that one would expect to feel from someone with a supposed history of violent throat slashing.

"You should never rely on others to tell you what to think of people. Always decide for yourself." Oswald said coolly, observing Myla's cheeks redden with embarrassment for her earlier "assumptions". Very cute. "But that isn't to say you're terrible for holding the opinion of your family to a higher regard."

Yes, Myla had certainly been taught by her family to accept what she had been told. What they thought of her meant an awful lot more to her than she supposed it should have, that, of course, would also extend to what they might think of who she was with.

"Are they very overprotective of you?" He asked. "Your family, I mean?"

She bit her lip. "Not exactly..." Overprotective wasn't really the word. Myla leaned forward, deciding that considering their conversation so far, she didn't care if what she was about to say was too heavy for a simple coffee date. It was really no heavier than the conversation surrounding her drugging. "It's more like...Have you ever felt like 'the other', Mr. Cobblepot?"

"The what?"

"The Other." She clarified. "Like, have you ever been told that you belong to a part of something, but you aren't really? You're never treated like you belong, and all you ever get from being there is the feeling you're not even wanted? You're just a spare, the afterthought – The Other."

Oswald mouth felt strangely dry, not expecting to have something like this in common with Myla. "Yes."

"It's not that my family is overprotective, it's that I'm not _theirs_." Liv and Roy had taken her in when she was very small, but had never embraced a proper role as "parents" for her. The way they cared for her, worried for her, and disciplined her was always clearly different from the way they treated their own daughter, and in a lot of ways, Myla felt much more like an over-glorified house guest. Jasmine's little cousin coming over to stay for a bit, given just enough attention for them to feel good about the visit before sending their niece on her way.

"So you believe they're merely assuming responsibility?"

She shrugged. That did fit the bill. You can feel responsible for someone without inherently caring about them. Like when you have the class hamster for the weekend.

"If I might ask – if you feel this way, why do you stay?"

"You can't quit your family. They're pretty much all I've got." When Myla was fifteen she had the opportunity to start living with her godfather, but had just started working, and things at home were finally going great. She didn't correlate the great home life with the money she was giving them until the opportunity to leave had long passed her by. That was when her paycheck started going toward college.

"That I can understand."

"Do you have a difficult family, too?"

"Not exactly. At least, not the same way as yours." Oswald chuckled dryly. "My family is...very small. Just my mother and I, actually."

"So I bet you told her about all your encounters with the weird bakery girl." The attempt to lighten up the subject matter didn't feel entirely successful, but she gave it a shot.

"I definitely did" He said. "And she already wants to meets you."

"Huh." Having only one person to impress felt more daunting than being confronted with a large Mormon family.

"It's a bit soon for that, I know. She's just finally got less concerned about me being ensnared by a gold-digger and more interested in the idea of...more family being brought into the world and such."

"Ah. Trying to guilt you into providing some grandkids?" Myla tried her best to appear nonchalant as she asked, her gaze falling down to his hands, which encircled his still full coffee cup, thumb brushing up and down against the warm ceramic as he spoke.

"That does appear to be her goal at this time, though it isn't one of mine."

Despite the previous seriousness of their conversation, Myla felt that this was entirely the wrong time and setting for the first appearance of the "do you want children someday?" talk. Myla instantly chose to swerve the conversation in a direction that would completely avoid that exact, expected follow-up.

"I should be getting back to Jazz." The line was absolutely a cop-out, but afterward she noticed the time, and realized she really did have to go. That made her feel better.

"Of course." Oswald stood up, pulling on his coat and retrieving his umbrella. "I must be on my way as well." He held the door for her as they emerged back into the cold, the two of them standing about awkwardly on the sidewalk for a moment or two.

"Myla." Oswald held her hand, in what he hoped was a very tender gesture. "I did mean to call."

"Life happens, I get it." Myla smiled reassuringly. "You'll make it up to me, I'm sure."

Oswald grinned. "I'll certainly have to try."


	7. Chapter 7

He would have to make this quick.

Very quick. Myla was skipping her class in order to meet with him that night, and Oswald certainly didn't want her to feel as though her time was being wasted on him. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. That would suffice to handle this bit of business. Oswald ditched his coat and scarf in the backseat before making his way toward the nearest building.

The knock of his shoes against the dock were like a story – he had faked his death on this dock, gotten his lights punched out on this dock – dues, all. Now he was running the dock. How things change.

A table of tools and weaponry greeted him upon entry, along with a man on a hook.

"Loredo." Oswald greeted the man stiffly as he shrugged off his jacket, neatly folding it on the back of an empty chair. "How incredibly unfortunate it is to see you again…like this." He rolled up his sleeves before snapping on the provided pair of industrial latex gloves, choosing a thin blade from the table almost similar to the one he kept safe within the lining of his vest.

With a casual flick of his hand, another man came out from the edge of the room to remove the gag from Loredo's mouth, the sudden influx of air causing him to cough violently. Oswald approached him, his walk so slow and steady that the limp was hardly even noticeable. The pain in his leg was always easier to manage in times like this, adrenaline flowing through him while taking the opportunity to show the power he now wielded.

"I just can't believe the level of disrespect that landed you here, Loredo." Oswald cast his glance down to the floor, drawing closer to the unfortunate fool on the hook. "First, you blew the money I so generously loaned you – on hookers, of all things. I mean really, how cliché can you get? And then...you actually attempted to skip town to avoid your contract? I mean...I'm wounded, really. It's just unbelievable. Unacceptable." The last word contained a little less snark and a bit more bite.

"You really think I'm scared of Fishs' little umbrella boy?" Loredo snarled, but it was half-hearted.

Oswald shook his head, letting out a dry chuckle. "Was that supposed to embarrass me? I'm aware of where I started – you'll have to do better than that." He gave Loredo a push, causing him to sway back and forth, the blade grazing his shirt every time he swung back Oswald's way.

"You're too green for this game, buddy. No way you can go through with all your shit plans." The desperation is Laredo's voice was palpable. "Just cause you stole the city...doesn't mean you got the chops to run it."

That was quite enough. Oswald put out a hand to stop Laredo from dangling around, his knife poised neatly to slide between the traitors ribs at his convenience.

"I may not have laid the foundation of this empire, that much is true," Penguin licked his lips, "but I will see through my plans for Gotham. Things that no one – not Falcone, not Maroni, and not Fish _fucking_ Mooney would have even thought to do. When I'm through, I will put everything they've built _to shame_.

As for nerve, well, we both already know that I'm much more capable than people have dared to think. It's the reason why we're both here, right now. You see, Loredo, my friend..." He pressed the blade in, feeling the warm, steady gush of blood running over his gloved hand. "This city," Oswald hissed, eyes narrowing, "is littered with the bodies of those much smarter than you, who thought I was someone they could step on." Careful not to spill a drop on himself, he slowly removed the knife, handing it off as he watched Loredo squirm and sputter like the pathetic creature he was. "One by one, they'll learn, just like you are right now. Alas, I hope to one day not have to teach this lesson so frequently."

Oswald removed the gloves, tossing them into bag along with the other things bound for the incinerator, and unrolled his sleeves before reaching for his suit jacket.

"Please dispose of everything properly, gentlemen."

He checked his watch. Still plenty of time.

* * *

The lining of Myla's new dress was uncomfortably starchy. Probably something that should have been washed before wearing. But the dress was so pretty, and really, she could suffer through a little scratchiness if it meant she wouldn't look so under dressed next to Oswald. Again. Myla had just spent more of her day than she would ever be willing to admit combing through every decent boutique in her neighborhood, eventually being rewarded with a high-necked black dress, featuring scrolling embroidery up the sides in shiny, black thread. It cost two days pay – more than she had ever spent on clothes before – but for once she said "screw it". Myla hadn't bought anything nice for herself in long time – that's what she kept telling herself. She deserved to feel classy and confident and not like a slob when Oswald joined her.

Plus it was sort of fun, she had to admit, going out with someone who liked to dress the way he did. Where else would Myla have found the excuse to dress so nice? Putting on an expensive dress and heels for a movie date was the highlight of her week.

Myla looked out again through the glass double doors of the theater, seeing Oswald's car pull up to the curb. She walked outside to meet him.

"You like being the early one, don't you?" Said Oswald

She smiled, nodding sheepishly. "Yeah, it's a habit."

"Would I be right to assume you've already bought our tickets as well?"

"You assume correctly." Grinning, Myla removed their tickets from her coat pocket and handed him one. "This means you're on snacks."

They entered the theater together, chatting a little about their days (well, certain parts of his day) as they got popcorn and headed to their movie. He helped Myla remove her coat before she sat down, smoothing out her dress over her knees.

Oswald glanced at her outfit approvingly, placing both their coats on the empty chair beside him. The dress was new, possibly even purchased earlier in the day, and completely different in terms of style and formality than on their previous meetings. Clearly, she was attempting to "match up" with him on an aesthetic level, which was incredibly pleasing, as Myla's apparent caring for what he thought of her appearance was a very positive sign to him.

More small talk was made, as the other patrons meandered in and took their seats. Turns out, it had been a while since either of them had seen a movie. Oswald used to treat his mother to the movies fairly often, but for the last year or so, there simply hadn't been the time. Between her job and night classes, Myla's only time for such an activity was limited a sliver of free time in the afternoon – which rarely panned out with anyone else's schedules, and who wants to go to the movies alone? She felt a little guilty to be skipping class in order to attend this one with Oswald, but she hadn't missed a class so far that semester (she had never missed class _ever_ ), and the professor seemed to really like her. Might as well put the credibility she had built up for herself to use and do something fun with it.

The best thing about movie dates is that they're easy. There are no expectations for conversation, no awkward moments. Just sitting and watching. Impossible to screw up. Oswald spent more time watching Myla than the screen – it was hard not to. She was just so beautiful, so sweet, and it's so very hard to catch a glimpse of the way someone laughs when they think no one is looking.

The beginnings of most relationships have the potential to be very strained, because there's simply so much unknown territory involved with it, especially if the person you are embarking with is someone completely new to you. You can't always be sure of what to say, what moves are okay to make, but Oswald wasn't concerned with either of those things at the moment. Still high from his power trip, courtesy of that fun bit of business at the docks, he was feeling bold and reached out, fingertips grazing Myla's cheek as he turned her head to face him. There was so delightfully disturbing about that fact that the hand he used to end a life just an hour before was now gently cupping her cheek, while he placed the most chaste kiss he had ever delivered on her lips. A toxic creation of innocence and something sinister.

Obviously, Myla's thought process on it was colored quite differently. In the semi-darkness of the theater, she admitted it was a nice setting for a first kiss, if only just because he wasn't able to see how hard she was blushing, or the way she was shaking in her seat when he let her go. Just the way he did things with such care, how he never made a move that he felt would make her uncomfortable – it was so different. He didn't hold her too close, or linger too long, or, God forbid, test the boundaries of what she might allow him to touch. It was lovely. Short and sweet. The sort of kiss she had secretly always wanted but never experienced.

Myla could still feel the heat of his palm on her cheek, several moments after he had pulled away and turned back to the movie. She twisted her fingers around in her lap, wondering if she should be holding his hand, because she suddenly really, really wanted to hold his hand. Her hands were starting to feel a bit sweaty, though, so maybe later. The movie blaring in front of her wasn't even registering anymore. He kissed her. He kissed her. This meant...there was a thing. They were a thing. Plausible deniability was out the window. Clearly he wanted thing to continue, to progress...and for that matter, so did she. This would have been an exciting revelation, if not for the fact that this meant her family would have to find out eventually. Jasmine would know.

As per her usual fashion, she spent the rest of the movie putting together an array of scenarios about taking him home, announcing their relationship. Even though her imaginings were a touch on the extreme side, Myla knew they weren't really that far off base, and there was really no conceivable way it would end well.

The lights came back on, promptly jarring Myla out of her thoughts.

Once the room thinned out a bit, Oswald stood up, helped Myla into her coat, and they walked out together.

"Are you feeling alright?" He asked. "You seemed a touch out of it the last half of the movie." Oswald hoped he hadn't misread anything.

"Yeah, I don't know." Myla admitted, staring strait off while she shoved her hand in her pockets. "I'm not very good at dates, if you hadn't already noticed."

That didn't seem to be it, but he didn't press further. "In my opinion, you've been doing just fine." He held the door for her, and she gave him a smile in response. Oswald waved off his driver, opting for the chance to speak with Myla for a while longer.

"What do you talk about on dates that we haven't covered?" Myla wondered out loud. She turned to him. "What are your life goals?"

"Is that a question you always pose to dates?"

"It's just about the only one I can think of, probably since I've been asked that at school every week for like, seven years."

"Life goals, well." This wasn't an easy question to answer, mostly because he had achieved just about everything, and also the others weren't exactly things he could be candid with her about, but one thought did come to mind."I think I would like to be mayor of Gotham one day."

"You don't strike me as the political type, but _'Mayor Cobblepot'_." There was a slight smirk on her lips when she said it, sending his heart into a flurry."That has a ring to it."

"I've always thought so." He smiled back at her."And what about your goals?"

"Would you believe that with as many times as I've been asked, I really have no idea?" Myla shook her head, stifling a laugh."I mean, obviously I want to finish school and….oh! Me and Jasmine have been pulling together to get my aunt and uncle a house in a few years. That's a goal, I guess."

As was it a piece of considerably surprising information. "I was under the impression that you didn't exactly care for your family?"

"They still took care of me." They did. In spite of their many glaring comments through the years outlining how they didn't have to, they still did. "Sure, they weren't always what I needed them to be, but, you know, you still want to put up the family who raised you. And it would be nice, if they were..." _Grateful_ , is what she wanted to say. Grateful toward her, enough to admit that raising her hadn't been a waste of their time.

Oswald paused, waiting to see if she would finish her sentence. "Since we're already on the topic, I have something to ask." He waited another moment, to see if she would interrupt him."I know you told me about how you felt in your family before, but, indulge me a little. What is is about them, exactly, that makes you worried to disclose our...relationship?"

"What, you want to learn about my family?"

"I'll tell you all about mine on the next date." He offered.

Well, at least she didn't have much family to talk about. "My aunt Olivia, she's really nosy." More like extremely nosy, At one point, Myla liked to keep a diary, but stopped after discovering that Liv would read it."She watches a lot of Dateline and gets way too intense about simple things, so her reaction to me dating someone with your...rumored reputation – will be less than stellar."

 _Rumored reputation_. Nice save. "And your uncle?"

"Uncle Roy is...stoic." Royce Kozak had barely ever looked Myla in the eye – her very existence upset him, because she looked so much like her father, and it reminded him of how unfair it was that his only brother was dead. On family outings, he would remind her that she didn't have to be included, but was because they didn't want to look like bad guardians. "To be honest, he doesn't usually concern himself with what I'm doing, but when Liv is upset, he's upset.

And then, you know Jasmine. She isn't keen on the idea of you and I even occupying the same room." She continued."I love her so much, and she's done a lot for me," when it suited her, anyway, "but she's loud and bossy." And often she was the most selfish person Myla knew.

"So, anyway, I can't say for sure how they would react to you, but I do know that the odds are against me, and I don't want to deal with it. Not yet."

"Who says you have to?"

"I mean, it's the thing to do – introduce the person you're seeing to your family."

"Yes, technically. I know you must not appreciate being with someone you feel you should hide, but I don't mind it, truly." Oswald took a moment to link his arm with hers. "For what it's worth, I enjoy your company – very much. If you feel the same of me then that's all that really matters."

Myla nodded. She was actually starting to like him an awful lot. Being around him was different, and interesting enough to always make her want to see more of him. And he was right – there was no concrete rule stating she had to tell her family she was seeing someone. She was a grown woman, it was none of their business. Plus, it was the holidays, which meant bringing in news like that would wreck what felt like the only happy time of year between her and them.

"Before I forget..." Oswald reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small box. He handed it to her. "You could think of it as an early Christmas present, if you like."

Inside was a cell phone. A thankfully basic one, one that wasn't so flashy that her family would question where/how she had gotten it, in which Oswald was the only contact.

"I hope you'll accept it." He smiled down at her. "It would be nice if you were easier for me to reach, don't you think?"

"It would, thank you." Myla tugged him down a little to kiss him on the cheek, and pocketed the gift as they began the walk back to her car.

"Are you busy at all next week?"

"A little." She shrugged, mentally thumbing through her planner. "But I'm free Wednesday night, after seven."

Oswald leaned down and kissed her goodbye. "Then I will call you soon, to make plans for Wednesday."

"O-okay." This blushing business would have to stop, she told herself, giving him a small smile before entering her car.

After she drove off, Oswald continued to walk down the sidewalk, thinking about his night. It was by far the most successful date he had ever experienced. Myla wasn't quite so nervous with him anymore, clearly no longer worrying herself with thoughts of his connection to crime, or potential as a murderer. The deception was sort of thrilling in that way. It was starting to feel like a game – a game in which he would test to see how long this could go on before Myla noticed anything was amiss.

Who doesn't love a challenge?


	8. Chapter 8

Jasmine flicked the light on as she entered the bedroom, the light causing Myla to stir slightly, but sound sleeping was a renowned Kozak family trait. Not bothering to be even a little quiet, Jasmine crossed the room to their closet so she could get ready for work, even tripping over something in the process with no reaction from her sleeping cousin. She sighed, casting a glare at Myla even though she wasn't awake to receive it.

It was a purse – Myla's purse – that she had tripped over. Strange, because Myla was, without a doubt, the tidiest person in the house. She never left anything just laying about. Still on the floor, Jasmine hastily shoved everything back into the bag, noticing a cell phone. It only took a glance to know that it wasn't the crappy family emergency phone that was kept in the car. Myla finally got her own cell phone? Curious, Jasmine flipped it open, pulling up the contacts to add her number to the list, but only found one.

Jasmine Kozak was not the type of person who handled things well. She had no concept of tact or timing. She was hot-headed, overly confrontational, always dealing with her problems head-on, whether the situation required it of her or not (but frequently it did not).

This was the first time that Jasmine felt she couldn't handle a situation – angrily or otherwise. As she knelt down on the ground, holding the cell phone out of Myla's purse with it single, damning contact, she didn't know what to do at all. Except maybe cry a little, because damn it, she had seen this coming. Her mind instantly flashed back to the day she caught Myla in the club where she worked, talking to Penguin, remembering the way he looked at her. It was that same look of sick, twisted longing that men had been giving to Myla since they were little girls. Jasmine had never been just Myla's cousin – she was a big sister – and it was the big sisters job to protect, and learn all of life's harsh realities first to pass down so her little sister wouldn't have to. She was supposed to keep her sister from a man like Penguin. In her mind, this wasn't a simple failure – she had failed in the worst way possible.

How had something like this even managed to slip past her notice? She remembered having a sneaking suspicion when she found out about the flowers Myla was being sent, but ultimately she decided not to bother either her or Penguin about it.

Paul. Paul belonged to Oswald's inner circle, and had been very interested in maintaining an exclusive thing with her the last few months. Had that all been just a distraction? How long had things been going on between Cobblepot and Myla? This phone meant they had been meeting up for a while. God, how long? What sort of things had he made her do by now? He had already gotten Myla to lie to her own family after all, which was something none of them would have ever expected from her in a million years, so what else was there?

She slowly counted to ten, reigning in her emotions before standing up. Jasmine pocketed the incriminating cell phone, casting a glance toward her cousin's sleeping form before leaving.

* * *

The metro was too slow for this situation, so Jasmine shelled out the cash for a cab instead. She stalked through the crowd at the club, loud music blaring all around her, and found Oswald sitting at the bar. Jasmine approached him, no smiles, no polite workplace demeanor, and slammed the cell phone on the counter directly in front of him. With all the noise inside, it barely made a tap, but the action – along with the realization of what it was – startled Oswald all the same.

"How long?" Jasmine hissed.

After picking up the phone, Oswald turned it over in his hands, assessing whether or not Jasmine had broken it. "Close to two months now, I suppose." He shrugged.

That was relieving news, if only just slightly, because it meant that Paul wasn't being used against her. Unfortunately, it still accounted for weeks of Myla lying.

"We should talk elsewhere." Oswald got down from his seat, slipping Myla's cell phone into his pocket as he led Jasmine to a more private room in the back. Once there, he gestured for her to take a seat, closing the door behind them, which effectively sealed off the loud activities from the club.

Many thoughts and obscenities raced through Jasmine's mind as he joined her at the table, so heated she didn't even know where to start. "I don't understand." She mumbled, shaking her head. Where had she gone wrong? Myla always listened to her – why was he the exception?

"That appears to be the theme of the evening, as I do not understand what you're being so confrontational for." He replied smoothly. "You do realize Myla is old enough to make decisions for herself, in regard to whom she chooses to spend her time with?"

Jasmine snorted. "Barely."

"She has no obligation to me – she could have said no." Oswald was severely lacking the patience needed to deal with a disgruntled employee at that time.

Jasmine could have laughed, but the bizarre situation prevented it from escaping. "You do not know her at all." She shook her head. "Myla doesn't like saying no – to anyone, for any reason. I feel like it's nothing short of a miracle that she continues to come home intact day after day. It's part of the reason why we gave her the car."

"So she's a nice girl, and you've babied her for it. Are you saying the fact that she's nice is the only reason Myla has continued to agree to see me?"

"I mean, pretty much. You did put a ridiculous amount of effort into roping her in. That stunt with the flowers? No girl could turn down a guy after a thing like that without feeling that a colossal bitch, and you knew it."

Myla's cousin was turning out to be much smarter than Oswald had initially given her credit for, but he still didn't appreciate the way he was laying out his tricks. "What do you want, Jasmine."

"I want you to stop seeing Myla. Hasn't that been clear?"

"Well...that's just not going to happen." Oswald shook his head, suppressing a laugh. "I truly enjoy Myla's company, and, as luck would have it, she appears to enjoy mine. It would be too much of a shame to back off from something so lovely."

"Well, the thing is," Jasmine began, mocking Oswald's tone toward her, "I'm her family. She'll choose me over you. Maybe I didn't tell her about who you are before because I didn't want her to worry about who I'm working for, but I will. I swear to God, I will. She won't won't even look you in the face again, let alone 'enjoy your company'."

Oswald bit his tongue. Jasmine was playing hard, but there was a way to get to her. Everyone has a weakness, a price. A dozen thoughts came to mind, but the disturbing majority involved hurting Myla in some form or another. The whole idea was to keep Myla in the dark. A price. Suddenly, he could feel his eyes lighting up. "Speaking of family," he chose his words carefully, as the wheels continued to spin in his mind, "Myla mentioned to me the other day about how you two were saving up to buy your parents – her guardians – a house?"

"Yeah, what of it?" She said warily.

"I could offer you an option that would greatly speed that goal along."

That comment left Jasmine incredulous. "Wait, wait – so you think you can bribe me?"

"No, of course not." Oswald shook his head, smiling. "You're too proud to be bribed. This would be a loan. An arrangement." He paused, waiting to see if Jasmine was interested enough to allow him to continue.

She was.

"Basically, I would give you this loan – the same as any loan you would acquire from a bank. The money would be used to put a down payment on a nice home for your parents. Most of the loan." He clarified. "I think some of it should go to a new apartment for you and Myla. You wouldn't have to worry about the mortgage or bills – just make payments on your loan. When that's paid, I suppose you could pay me rent for the apartment, or sell it. Move out, it doesn't matter." Jasmine still looked skeptical. "I'd like to place you in a different business as well. Perhaps a restaurant? I very much doubt you'll be wanting to deal with me on such a frequent basis."

Working someplace else with more human hours would certainly allow her to keep a more watchful eye on Myla. By this point, Jasmine knew the right choice was to leave: tell Oswald to fuck off, quit her job, go strait home and beg Myla to break things off with him – but she wanted to hear more. In spite of everything, she found herself enraptured by his offer.

"And in return?" Her voice had never sounded so quiet.

Oswald smiled. "You don't tell Myla anything. Not about this loan, or who's paying your bills. No whispers in her ear about 'who I really am' or more rumors about what I've done. She can break up with me, of course, as long as it's of her own accord. This deal will still stand – you will have job security, the apartment can remain free so long as Myla lives in it."

"How would you even know if she was breaking up with you because I said something?"

"I think it would be pretty easy to tell, if she was doing it for her own benefit rather than because she was instructed to, don't you?"

Begrudgingly, she admitted to herself that he had a point.

"You're just going to have to put your faith in her. Trust that she can decide for herself if I'm not worthy of her. Surely she isn't as incapable of turning someone away as you think" Oswald's hands fell into his lap as he waited for the entirety of the offer to sink in. "Would you like to add any terms, Jasmine?"

The hair on her neck bristled when he said her name. "I want this all in writing, for one." Months of listening to Myla drone on about credit and loan contracts and rental agreements had prepared her decently enough for a moment like this. Jasmine could feel her heart pounding in her ears as her mouth attempted to keep up with her thoughts. "Less than ten percent interest on the loan, and to be certain that Myla and I can keep the apartment after she dumps you. I want salary pay at my new job – you will not put me in a position that relies on tips. Actually, I want a separate work contract, that guarantees my position for at least as long as I owe you. And as for you. "Jasmine's eyes narrowed. "I'm giving you a curfew for when you're out with Myla. I'm thinking...ten o'clock."

"Midnight."

"Fair enough. But no spending the night." She felt sick at the mere thought of the possibility, but it needed to be stated.

The seriousness in which she proposed that particular term was too amusing, Oswald couldn't help but let out a chuckle at what a micro-manager Jasmine was being about this. Bad timing, he realized, when he noticed the blood drain from Jasmine's face. "Oh God, no..." She really was going to be sick.

"You shouldn't misinterpret anything, Jasmine." Oswald clarified, as if he had read her mind. "I'm not laughing to illustrate that such a term has already come to pass. We're taking things very slowly, I assure you – I doubt she'll be spending the night anytime soon."

Not if she could help it. Definitely not. For a brief moment, Jasmine had been convinced that Myla broken her high school chastity vow with _Penguin_. While that promise had long since flown out the window for her, as far as she knew Myla had stuck to hers, and out of all the boys she dated, there was no way Oswald was going to be the person to persuade her away from it. Jasmine closed her eyes and sighed. Thank God. She doubted Myla even had an adequate enough knowledge of sex. Another failure on her part.

This was so much. This was so wrong. Jasmine felt suddenly out of breath. Was she really doing this? Bargaining with a gangster over the dating rights of her cousin? Fuck. The level to which she had suddenly fallen probably didn't even exist yet.

But Myla would understand. Myla would have made any deal – no matter the sacrifice of dignity it would cost – if it meant her loved ones were being taken care of. Feeling more confident about the situation, Jasmine even told herself that it was only a matter of time before Penguin slipped up, sending Myla running. She couldn't possibly avoid his true nature forever. Like he said, Jasmine needed to have faith that her cousin wasn't so hopeless as to be unable to make decisions for herself. They needed to stop enabling Myla to be so foolishly naive. This was a deception she could live with. Job security and free rent was well worth the price of this life lesson.

"So, we have an agreement?"

Jasmine nodded solemnly.

"Great." Grinning widely, Oswald slid Myla's cell phone across the table. "Please return this to Myla, would you? Tomorrow morning we will draft up your two contracts, and I will put you in touch with a realtor." He pushed himself up from his chair and began to leave. "Take the night off – you've really earned it."

For a few minutes, or maybe an hour, Jasmine stared blankly at the door after Oswald had left. A loan, a new apartment, and a night off. She had earned them tonight, that was for sure, but had yet to learn what they would cost her in the end.


	9. Chapter 9

The snow on the side of the road built up higher and higher as Myla drove toward the city outskirts. Rather than another date in the city, Oswald invited her over to his house to watch Christmas movies, and Myla decided she felt fine enough around him to accept. His home was appearing to be awfully out of the way, though, giving her more time to think about things than she really wanted to.

Because this was going to be the very first time they would be well and truly alone. Not alone in a room somewhere or anything either, but alone in a house. Alone on an actual piece of property, with (she had to assume) no one else around. It wasn't like she expected Oswald to act much differently than he had been toward her already, but it was a step she had never taken with a significant other before. Was watching TV all he had planned?

One thing for certain was that it wouldn't be option to do anything outside. In the spirit of the Holidays (and her new habit of stepping up her look), she was wearing a new, burgundy A-line dress. Myla wasn't very fond of reds, and the shiny material and sweetheart neckline definitely were not style elements she was used to, but this whole dressing-up thing had really been paying off for her. Better overdressed than under, she told herself earlier that day as she zipped herself into it.

The turn she needed to make was sharply hidden in the trees, causing her to nearly miss it – like he had warned her she might – and forcing her car into a near-halt in order to make it. The rest of the drive took place on a single-lane pass, which left her feeling anxious despite it still being light outside. Wasn't this how horror movies started?

For the two miles she drove alone that narrow, tree-lined road, she was beginning to think this was all leading up to a large cabin. She was wrong. It was large. It was not a cabin. It was a damn mansion. Myla scrunched her face up in disbelief at it while she crumbled the paper containing his directions and tossed it into the backseat. _I own a few businesses_ , he had told her. _I've done alright for myself_. Ridiculous. The gravity of the whole milestone surrounding visiting her boyfriend's place for the first time was no less than eight times more stressful than it had been before she saw his place. After a short pity-party in which Myla reminded herself that she was going to be broke from student loans and mortgage payments for the rest of her life, she pulled her coat a little tighter around her and stepped out of the car, carefully walking to the front door. Myla rang the bell and waited.

Thankfully, Oswald answered it. She would have died if it had been answered by some sort of butler.

"Hello." Clearly unfettered by thoughts of milestones and impressions, Oswald smiled brightly at her. "Come in, come in!"

Myla returned the smile and stepped inside, the sound of her heels echoed throughout the foyer. As always, Oswald offered to take her coat, complimenting her dress as he did. She thanked him, of course, but her anxiety had shot through the roof since walking through the door, so nervous she could vomit. A quick round of "how are you"'s was exchanged, before he beckoned her forward, leading her through his house and to...wherever.

The house was ornate. Opulent. Stuffy. There was a lot of brocade, and gold accents, lots of portraits and trays with glass decanters of various alcohols about. Myla felt more like she was in a Victorian gentleman's cigar club instead of someone's home, but she was also suddenly less self-conscious of her fancier dress choice for that day. If she had worn anything else she might have found herself outdone by the furniture.

There was too much silence. "So does your mother live with you?" She asked.

"Sometimes, yes." Oswald answered. "But she gets bored living away from the city, so she splits time between here and being at her apartment." He noticed Myla glancing around, probably wondering if his mother would surprise them with an appearance at any moment. "Now is one of those weeks she's at her apartment."

"Oh." Meeting someone's parents was another one of those dating milestones that Myla had never quite made it to, and she certainly didn't prepared for such a thing at this time, as she was already plenty uncomfortable standing in Oswald's _mansion_. Their walk came to an end, as he guided her to a sort of living room. Myla bet there were at least four such rooms in this place, each called something different, like the _parlour_ or the _east sitting room._ This one contained a TV and a lit fireplace, if that had anything at all to do with this particular room might be named.

"Feeling festive? I put in It's a Wonderful Life." Oswald shut all the curtains in the room before switching on the TV. Loud DVD menu music filled the room.

Ah, It's a Wonderful Life. What a Christmas staple, that Myla hated. It was nothing against the classics, and certainly nothing against James Stewart, but It's a Wonderful Life was always, without fail, the most boring two hours of the Holiday season. Meaning that if she watched it today, it was now claiming four hours this year. She didn't say any of this to Oswald of course. Just smiled, said "Sounds great!" and sat down.

"You know, in my family, we always watch Christmas movies in pajamas."

"That sounds like a fun tradition." He remarked.

The Kozak Christmas Pajama Jam was indeed very fun. Immeasurably more fun than it was to be sitting stiffly next to her new boyfriend, on a sofa that she guessed probably cost a years worth of rent, as they watched her second least favorite movie without the aid of a sugar high.

It shouldn't have even been possible for them to be sitting so far apart from each other on such a small couch, but there they were, making the impossible happen. They hadn't had an opportunity to be alone like this yet – there had been no establishment of things as far as touching – which is how they went so long with their bodies rigid, not even exchanging small talk. Not one sound had even passed between them since the movie had started, until Myla's phone rang.

She glanced down at the screen. Jasmine. "Hello?"

'Hey, you should probably come home now."

Myla frowned. "Why?"

"It's started snowing. I doubt your lily ass wants to walk home."

Myla got up from the couch and pushed back the thick curtains Oswald had drawn earlier, seeing that it was indeed snowing. It didn't seem like it was coming down very hard in the city, but it sure was where she was currently at. "So it is." She let the curtain fall back into place. "See you soon, I guess."

"Everything alright?"

"Looks like I have to go home." Myla said apologetically.

It was Oswald's turn to look out the window, while she was already starting to leave the room. "Is it safe?"

"I don't know. Probably not?" Myla shrugged. "But Jazz has been really freaking out lately, so I should just go. It doesn't look that bad yet." She started her way back to the front door, Oswald trailing behind her.

"You'd be welcome to stay here, if you decide you would rather not freeze to death on the side of the road."

Myla paused halfway into putting on her trench. "Staying here" felt an awful lot like code for "spending the night", and "spending the night" was often code for "sex", which she didn't feel at all prepared for.

Oswald must have realized how that sounded as well. "It's only a suggestion. Once again, only as opposed to freezing in a car, buried in snow."

"Noted." She buttoned up her coat. "But I should get home."

However, once the door opened, it was clear that she had underestimated how much faster snow accumulates outside of the city, where there were factors like smog. Her car was barely even visible, but it appeared to be set in a good few inches of snow already. She would consider herself lucky to even make it back to the main road.

"I have to make a phone call." Or two. Myla avoided looking as Oswald as she pulled out her phone to redial Jasmine, who picked up almost immediately.

"You on your way?"

"Hey, so, everything's fine," Myla began nervously, "buuuuut I'm going to spend the night here at Jen's."

"What?" Jasmine's voice flew up two octaves, stinging Myla's ear. "Why?"

Myla neither understood nor cared for her cousin's anxious new attitude. Not one month ago Jasmine would have laughed at her for even bothering to make this call. "I don't know. I'm across town, driving in the snow is dangerous..."

"So? At least try."

"Yeah, no." Myla said, with a more scathing bite to her voice than she would usually have. "Remember that time you made me drive you in the snow for a booty call? And we got trapped in the car on the freeway for ten hours?"

"Vaguely."

"That sucked. And I'm not doing it again." She kept her voice firm. "I'm fine here. See you tomorrow."

"Okay." Jasmine sure sounded ridiculously forlorn over the idea of Myla spending the night at a friends. "Just...be safe."

They exchanged mumbled I love you's before hanging up. Myla tossed her phone onto the counter.

Before Oswald could weigh in on the mini spat he had just witnessed, his phone buzzed from within his pocket, and he knew who it would be before he even looked at it. "Please excuse me – it's work." He lied. Oswald quickly stepped into the next room, shutting the door behind him. By then, Jasmine was ringing him for a second time.

"Seriously?"

"Hello Jasmine." He answered. "What a surprise that I would get a call from you."

"Cut the shit." She snarled. "Tell Myla to come home, now.

Oswald chuckled, shaking his head. "I think not."

"But our contract -"

"Contains a very specific, very thorough Inclement Weather Exceptions clause in your section on spending the night. Page twelve, should you like to re-visit it." He finished. "Honestly, Jasmine, did you just ask for a contract to sound smart?"

She absolutely did, but that was beyond the point. "Please, tell her she should go home."

Begging. He wouldn't have pegged the older Miss Kozak as the begging type. "What's the issue here? Is the idea of her sleeping in my guest bed really so awful?"

"We both know that's not the bed you want her in."

"True enough, but it's not as though I'm going to make Myla feel like she has to." Oswald sighed. "Believe it or not, this _sleepover_ really is about common sense more than anything."

"Please don't insult me by acting like you actually care."

Well, no one could say he hadn't tried to be nice about it. "Not staying the night won't keep Myla from fucking me if she wants to." He was met with silence from the other line, as Jasmine struggled to come up with another retort, but failed to do so in time. "She'll be back home with you by noon tomorrow at the latest. Goodbye, Jasmine."

The impertinence of Myla's cousin was starting to become an issue. Despite their deal, Jasmine was already failing pretty miserably on her end, and Oswald feared that she might crack any day.

He needed a drink.

Myla was nowhere to be seen when he exited the room, prompting him to head to the kitchen, retrieving a bottle of red and two glasses. Did Myla drink? He didn't want her to think he was trying to get her drunk. What with her being quite stranded with him for the night, it wouldn't exactly set the best tone. Let's see – she had water with dinner on their first date, coffee on their second, soda at the movies, she offered herself up as a designated driver on Halloween…. In any case, he knew she was old enough to drink, if only just barely, so it wouldn't hurt to offer. First, a quick swig from the bourbon bottle, as it was beginning to really hit Oswald that Myla was going to spend he night. In his house. Sleeping, somewhere in his house – and yes – possibly even in his bed as Jasmine had accused. In any case, he was going to wake up the next morning and she would be there. There in his house.

The familiar burn of the liqueur was a comfort to him as he tried to collect himself. One more for the road, before making his was back to Myla.

She had made her way back to the sitting room, and was staring out the window again, staring at the snow. God, she looked so pretty. He noticed the phone in her hand, and wondered if Jasmine had called her again.

From the way she smiled at him upon his entry, Oswald guessed not.

"Do you drink?"

"Sometimes." Not really. Myla could probably count the number of hard drinks she had consumed on one hand, and was always being recruited as the designated driver, which she took very seriously.

Oswald bit his tongue. "Let me rephrase. Would you like a drink?"

"Oh." Duh. "Sure." She crossed the room to him and accepted a glass. One would be fine. It wasn't like she had anywhere to be that night, and maybe It's a Wonderful Life would be a bit more enjoyable with a buzz. After taking a sip, Myla was surprised to find how sweet the wine tasted.

"You're not uncomfortable here, are you? With me?" Oswald had expected her to be a touch more wary in accepting the wine, and definitely more frazzled at the idea of having to be alone with him for a currently indefinite amount of time until the roads were plowed.

She shook her head. "No, I'm fine." The way she saw it, Oswald had been offered plenty of opportunities to take advantage and hadn't. This wasn't an ideal situation for her by any means, but she didn't feel like it was unsafe.

"You're just...very calm right now." He mused. "Usually you seem more anxious."

That was because she still hadn't told anyone about them. In the city, her friends, or worse, her family could see them together, and they would know that not only was she dating someone she was expressly advised not to so much as look at, but that she had been spending the last several weeks lying about it. "It's not a lot to do with you, specifically." Not to her, at least, not anymore. "I guess it has a lot to do with how I've never really dated."

That reminded Oswald of something. Perhaps this was the perfect time to do a bit of digging into what she said at the Halloween party. "I find that hard to believe."

Myla half shrugged, not caring whether he believed it. "Well, it's true."

"How many long-term relationships have you been in?" He asked, figuring she must have had a high school boyfriend who stuck around for a year or two.

In her mind, Myla pulled up the short list of boys she considered to be exes. "How long is 'long term'?"

This wasn't the start he expected. "Half a year?" His mouth felt incredibly dry, despite the large gulps he was taking from his wine.

That made the answer easy. "None, then."

"Really. None." These weren't question – he knew Myla wouldn't lie to him, making her very young, with an extremely limited dating history that contained exactly zero long-term relationships. It wasn't looking as though her "virgin" comment hadn't been the drugs talking.

Oswald never understood how so many men found the concept of virginity exciting. So much emotion is tied to a person's first time, and all he could think about was how he was likely to be somewhat responsible for how Myla would feel about sex the rest of her life. What was something that he had been rather looking forward to suddenly felt like a daunting task.

Maybe she could be in denial. Very deep denial.

Because he doubted it was possible that no one had known her intimately. Not as she sat there, looking so desirable in her red dress, eyeliner as sharp as the knife in his breast pocket, with her hair so smartly done up. Someone out there had to know how soft her skin was beneath her clothes, watched her face as she came, the way Oswald has wanted to since the day she had the misfortune of crossing his path.

Oswald had been staring at her for too long, so lost in his own lustful thought that he hadn't noticed that she was staring at him expectantly, as if she had just asked him something.

"I'm sorry, what?" He asked, feeling a little embarrassed.

"Nothing really, I was just trying to be nosy about your dating life, too."

"My dating life has been slightly more successful than yours, to be honest." He offered, noticing that she seemed pleased by the idea that he also hadn't been been involved with many other people.

Myla took another drink of the wine. It was actually starting to seem much more bitter than it did at first. Wasn't alcohol supposed to taste better the more you drank it?

She drained it anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

Friends, family, and acquaintances alike assumed that Myla was sticking to a weird, rather cult-like purity pledge she had been made to take as part of ninth grade sex-ed class, and she allowed them to think so because she figured it was none of their business. The truth was, she was still a virgin because the opportunity had never really presented itself. She got close once, in the apartment of an eccentric, though very nice man she had briefly befriended during her first year of college, but...he turned out to be less nice than she thought. Other than that, she didn't much care for dating, and no one she attempted to date ever lasted more than a month or two.

Oswald had yet to lead the pack in terms of her longest relationship, but he was getting close to her in ways the others had failed, and she already considered him very important to her, and she currently thinking about how neat it would be to say she had her first time with a millionaire in front of a fireplace. He was just so nice. So nice. And Myla did like kissing him. He didn't force his tongue into her mouth, and his hands were never where they shouldn't be, even though at this point she decided she wouldn't have minded nearly as much if they happened to stray.

Three glasses of wine was the ticket to making everything feel so much better better. Somewhere between the phone call with Jasmine and that third glass, a giant weight had been lifted. Oswald showed her around the house a bit more, showed her some paintings he thought she might find interesting, tried to point out the chicken coup through the blizzard. They ended up back in that first sitting room, where they no longer sat stiffly across from each other while pretending to pay attention to the blight of George Bailey. It was quite the opposite now – Oswald was practically on top of her her, while she kept thinking about how warm and good his hands felt on her waist, and whether it was too bold to attempt a cheeky comment on where he could find her zipper.

Another half a glass and she definitely would have gone for it.

Myla supposed she would be grateful for the slow progression to the next level once she sobered up, but for now she was kind of annoyed by the way Oswald kept stopping. For a reason she didn't understand, every so often he would stop, sit up, and start a conversion about movies or her classes or places they liked in the city.

This time he peeled himself off of her to pour another drink from one of those nifty carts that seemed to be in every corner of the house, as they had long since exhausted the wine from earlier. Myla propped herself up on her elbows to watch him cross the room, noticing how much more prevalent his limp was without the aid of his cane. So far, they had stuck to dates that centered around a lot of sitting – dinner, coffee, movies - it made sense that she would have hardly noticed it otherwise, and how it had never occurred to her to ask why he walked that way.

But Drunk Myla was feeling curious, and was far less concerned with politeness. "What happened to you? You leg, I mean."

Of course, Oswald had expected this question would arise at some point, but hadn't really given much thought to the answer he would give her. It didn't seem smart to inform her how his former boss had hobbled him before sending him off to die.

"I was in an accident, and circumstances left me unable to allow the injury to heal properly." He quickly drained a shot while Myla looked away, then poured himself another.

"Couldn't you get it fixed now, though?" She asked as Oswald sat back down next to her.

"I suppose I could." He certainly had the money. "But, truthfully, I've found it to be quite defining, and a good reminder of where I came from." And of mistakes he would be sure to never make again.

A cryptic answer, to be sure, but satisfactory enough. Myla wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind to find anything he said to be suspicious in any way, and went back to wondering things like if his leg affected they he had sex at all. Would she have to be on top all the time? She let him finish his drink before pulling his face back to hers. Those sorts of mechanics would surely work themselves out. Plus she didn't want to get so far ahead of herself – she couldn't even tell if he wanted her that way right now.

She didn't have a clue how much Oswald wanted her. How much self-restrain he had been exercising all afternoon. Initially, it was to give her the chance to inform him if she was saving herself. Then it was more about wanting to savor everything – until midway through Myla's second glass of wine, which is when it became apparent that she did not drink. At all. While Oswald was no stranger to drunk sex – in fact there were times he preferred it – he was paranoid that without the aid of wine, Myla would have been far less enthusiastic toward him, but that knowledge alone didn't make it any less difficult to hold back. Especially while she was running her fingers through his hair, laying beneath him looking so soft and pretty and so, so very vulnerable. It would have been easy to slip inside her, just for a minute. Hitch up her dress, unzip his pants, pull her underwear to the side...hear her gasping in his ear as he pushed his cock inside. It would be so easy, and it would be for just a minute.

Except he knew it would not be for just a minute, and he would have to wake up the next morning knowing he had cheapened his first time with Myla – potentially her first ever sexual experience – to a drunken quickie on a couch. They would have to do better than that.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Oswald glanced at his watch. Ten. Ten is a fine bedtime for a drunk person. Reluctantly, he peeled himself off Myla again, pulling her up with him.

"You should go to bed."

"Okay." Myla pouted a bit as she got up from the sofa. "Do you have something I could sleep in?"

His bed. "What?" He avoided looking at her as he held the door open.

"You know, like a t-shirt or something." She clarified.

"Oh, right." Oswald had been very intent on taking her strait to the guest bedroom, but paused them when they reached his door. "One moment." He slipped inside, half-praying that she wouldn't follow, and went to his dresser. Myla was fairly slender, so his pajamas would serve the purpose just fine. He grabbed a pair for her and left the room, handing them off as he shut the door behind him.

"Thanks." She almost mentioned how she only needed the top, but thought better of it.

They came to a stop far enough down the hall to where Myla barely even remembered stopping for the PJ's. Oswald attempted to keep some distance between them, contorting around her to open the door, and then doing a sort of awkward lean in order to give what he felt was a remarkably chaste kiss on her forehead.

"Sleep well." His voice sounded soft and distant, already in the mindset that he should retreat to his room as soon as possible, and drink until he couldn't walk.

Myla watched him walk away for a moment or two, still feeling rather sullen. "Good night."

* * *

The sun was shining, the roads were plowed, and Myla was a little hungover. Only slightly, but still enough to make her regret that she had woken up in the first place. Her ears were ringing, mouth dry, and when she looked down she saw that she had smeared a good deal of makeup onto the pillowcase.

The saving grace of the morning was the fact that at least Drunk Myla apparently had the sense to hang up her dress before falling asleep. Gritting her teeth, she rolled of the bed and swayed her way to the bathroom, to clean up the smudged eyeliner and wipe the fuzz off her teeth with the help of a hand towel. Out of courtesy, she made up the bed and folded up the borrowed pajamas before zipping herself back into her own clothes.

As Myla walked to the kitchen, she considered herself as only looking half a hot mess. That thought all but vanished when she saw Oswald sitting at the counter, looking fresh as a daisy with his suit, reading the paper. For a moment it felt like she was living out a scene from a sitcom. A scene that would have had cheesy, recorded studio laughter accompanying it.

"Good morning." Oswald smiled at her, setting down the paper. "You don't really drink, so you Myla?"

"No, I do not." Myla admitted. She sat down next to him, and he slid a plate with a bagel over to her. At that moment, Myla remembered that she had wine for dinner, and that intense sick feeling in the pit of her stomach was actually hunger. She didn't even think to ask for cream cheese or peanut butter before cramming half the bagel into her mouth, or care about how she was being watched while eating. Oswald stood up after passing the plate anyway, to pour her a glass of orange juice from the fridge.

"Would you still say you enjoyed your time here?" He asked.

"Of course." She attempted to pace herself, taking smaller bites so as not to choke and embarrass herself while Oswald tried to hold a conversation with her.

"Well, the roads are all cleared now." He informed her. "I suppose you can leave whenever it suits you."

"Right, right." Yeah right – she felt in no shape to drive. Just thinking about the loud, rattling noises of her junk car made her feel like shanking herself in the eye. "Thanks again for letting me sleep here." Myla didn't imagine her first night here would be spent in a different bed than Oswald, but it had been a very telling night nonetheless. Now she knew how adamant he felt regarding her driving in dangerous weather conditions, and that he didn't take advantage of drunk lightweight girls (even though most would consider it more socially acceptable than say, taking advantage of a drugged girl).

Oswald smiled again, more warmly this time. "You're quite welcome."

Myla got up from her seat, walking around him to put her plate in the sink. "I mean, as long as you don't have anywhere to be, I could hang around for a while longer." It probably sounded like she was fishing, but it was better than asking if she could stick around until she didn't feel like death. She paused before she could walk past him again, leaning against an empty expanse of counter.

Her "fishing" was met with a lazy grin. "You can stay as long as you like." Oswald stepped over to her. "You could even spend another night." His smile grew wider as he watched the way her cheeks and ears reddened.

"Ha." Myla stammered. "Pretty sure my family will think I've moved out if I stay here again."

"Would that really be such an issue?"

"I mean, they'd get over themselves once I came home, but I would get some annoying voicemails."

"No, I meant, would it be such an issue if you lived here?"

Myla shoved the last piece of bagel into her mouth with a newfound interest in how long she could chew it for. If she could chew it for so long that Oswald would stop staring at her, with an expression that clearly stated that he was awaiting an immediate answer.

Unfortunately, bagels start to take on a gluey consistency when you chew them for too long. "I don't...know." She finally answered.

"Sorry, it's probably a bit soon for that." Oswald admitted. "I guess I just wanted to put the thought in your head, but you needn't make such a decision now, of course."

"It is kind of soon." She definitely agreed with him on that. "Plus I don't really think I would...fit here."

"Nonsense." He reached out to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. "You were plenty at home here last night."

It was tempting to point out that Drunk Myla was the one who made herself so at home, but it was getting difficult to think strait, while Oswald was tracing her lower lip with his thumb. "I want you to know that you mean a great deal to me Myla." His voice was low, but strangely harsh. "And I like keeping the things that matter to me...very close." Their lips met.

Oswald parted her legs with his knee, hands smoothing up her sides. Myla's heart pounded furiously at the sensation of his hips grinding against hers. This had all felt very fine before, with the wine and the fireplace and the snow coming down outside – but everything feels different once you're sober in the daylight. And also when you're standing in the kitchen of house with an unknown number of others wandering about. And it definitely hadn't helped that Oswald amped up the pressure, talking about living together, saying nice things about her being important to him. Things no one else had ever told her before.

There was nothing about the situation that wasn't new territory, and it was treading a fine line between wonderful and terrifying. Myla tried to focus on the positive: how she had never liked the others who held her close nearly as much, or the way others had kissed her, and the way would run their hands over her dress...towards the...zipper.

She bit him.

It was nothing if not incredibly effective, though instantly apparent that it had been the wrong course of action. The main, glaring problem was that in her panic, she had bit too hard – she tasted blood. Oswald jerked away, hand flying to his mouth as she leapt up from her seat.

"I'm sorry. Myla started to back away, almost tripping over her heels. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry." She braced herself for anger, and yelling, but he just stood there.

"I'm sorry." She offered again, watching as he lowered his hand to reveal the red running down his chin. His eyes finally flicked up to hers, and Myla's heart skipped a beat.

There wasn't an emotion she could quite think of that matched the look he gave her. She wouldn't call it rage, or even disbelief – but Myla knew she didn't like it. And that she wanted to leave. Now.

He didn't follow her to the front door as she expected, didn't stop her as she gathered her things and left. Once outside, she realized her phone was still on the kitchen counter, but surely it didn't matter. After this she doubted she needed it anymore.

Her heart was racing, beating so fast that she was hardly aware of the cold while she ran to her car, starting it before she even put her coat on. Myla yanked her shaking arms through the sleeves, staring nervously at the door, waiting for Oswald to appear while she was stuck there waiting for the car to warm up.

Finally, she was able to drive away, but it was hardly a victory. Myla messed up. She messed up _hard_.


	11. Chapter 11

Oswald ran his tongue over his lip, tasting copper.

If he was being honest with himself at this moment, he was happy that Myla had left when she did. A vile implication on this part, but he really was worried that had she stayed much longer, he could have done something far worse than her to be sorry for.

He thought it had been the right time – the right moment – to make that move. After all that flowery business about feelings, and offering her a place in his home, his life. Oswald hadn't expected to be wrong. What he expected least of all was such an adverse reaction from her. Not gentle, sweet, weak Myla. Although, was she really? Oswald let out a dry half-chuckle. My, my...how interesting things had become.

For the longest time afterward, he stared at his hands. For hours it felt like, watching the blood turn a rusted hue, drying within the infinite lines and crevices of his palms. Suddenly, he found himself sitting down, recalling the details of it over and over again – the moment he looked down the see the familiar yet currently uncommon sight of his own blood on his fingertips. Looking up to see that same blood smeared across her lips. At the moment, there wasn't an exact word he could think of to describe the way he felt. Strange, one might suppose, came fairly close. While he thought about that, so entranced by the situation that rendered him unable to even think properly, Myla had jumped past him, looking like a doe in headlights as she rambled off apologies that were just a buzz in his ear. Then she left. One second he looked up to see her concerned and frightened face, but by the next time he glanced up she was gone.

There will be people you meet who set off fireworks and cause lightning storms, while others set off sparks. Sparks that you believe to be harmless, until you remember that sparks can still burn. Myla was the spark that burned. Every moment she was at his side, Oswald felt her slowly, steadily burning away until he felt he could crumble into dust as easily as an ashen log. Searing at his patience, his false charm, his...lust. The desire he had for Myla was a fact, but so far he had managed to play the part of the perfect gentleman in her presence. A sometimes difficult act, when he considered how many nights following their meeting and courtship were spent with his hardened cock in his palm and her name on his lips, imagining how she would feel and sound beneath him as he fucked her. Those were much rosier fantasies than the ones coming to his mind now, which involved teeth and nails, sinking his hands into that thick hair of hers, twisting, pulling. Leaving bruises on her wrists and hips by the time he was finished. The desire to make it reality was overwhelming and desperate urgent.

Oswald looked back down at his hands, realizing he had been shaking ever since Myla left – but it wasn't from anger. His felt his eyes light up as he put a name to what he was feeling. It was hunger. A feeling all too known to him, but never for a reason like this. He stood up from his chair so fast that the kitchen spun around him for a moment. After hastily wiping his hands off on a tea towel, he left the room in search of his trench, calling out for Gabriel on his way to the foyer. For once, he couldn't be fucked to care about the blood on his suit. He needed to clear his head, and he knew just the person to go to.

* * *

There were times Edward wished he could be surprised by Oswald's frequently morbid or haggard-looking state of appearance, but this wasn't the first time the man had shown up on his doorstep in such a state, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last. Regardless, he took a few moments to eye Oswald's swollen lip and the blood on his collar with a healthy level of annoyance before inviting him inside.

"What's up, Oz?"

"Thought I'd stop by for a bit. You know. Chat." Oswald hobbled past Edward, taking a seat on the couch.

Edward look skeptical. "Right. Talk." He walked back over to the kitchen,

"Am I not allowed to want to talk to you?" Admittedly, Oswald had come over with fucking in mind, but upon his arrival became aggravated by the fact that it was Myla he wanted to be fucking. He could still fuck Edward, but it wouldn't be nearly as satisfactory with Myla at the front of his mind, with her red dress and long hair and his blood on her lips.

"I suppose you are." Edward sighed, taking a seat in his chair.

"How are things? How's work."Oswald glanced around, avoiding the topic which had brought him there in the first place. Edward's apartment was such a hodgepodge, abet a very tidy one. Sometimes the meticulous order left Oswald tempted to knock something over.

"It's fine. They gave me an intern, but it's….whatever." Edward bit his tongue. "Are you going to tell me what happened, or did you just show up to wipe blood on my couch. Again."

Touching his fingers to his swollen lip, Oswald finally locked eyes with Edward. "She bit me. The girl I've been seeing bit me."

"She bit you? And yet, I'm sensing you aren't too thrilled about it. Such hypocrisy, Ozzie." He tutted. Edward hardly ever walked out from their trysts unscathed, experiencing more deep scratches and bite marks on his frame courtesy of Oswald rather than the average hickies one could expect from a lover.

Oswald rested his face on his palm, looking down at the floor again. "It was more...defensive than sensual."

"Defensive biting." That was a detail which brought Edward pause. "Interesting."

"What." Oswald said sharply, expecting some clever little facet about how this meant Myla was a psychopath somewhere deep down.

"Nothing. I'm simply saying that biting is an odd choice for a first defense." Edward reasoned. "Were her hands free?"

Oswald did not care for his insinuation. "They were, if you must know." He sneered. "I wasn't pinning her down."

"Well, perhaps she thought pushing you would seem too harsh. How did she react to it? The biting, I mean."

"Panicked, apologized."

"Well at least she's remorseful."

"Hm." Some comfort that was. "Do you remember Halloween?"

Edward remembered the man they tortured together on the docks until the sun rose. "Uh, yeah."

"I don't think I told you that I saw her that night."

"Nope."

"Frank invited me this hole in East End for negotiations." He began. "I guess he thought it was smart to show me his products in action. Maybe it was at first, I don't recall. All but then I went outside. The girl happened to be there, and that was lovely until I realized she had been drugged."

That explained quite few things, as well as raised some concerns. "Please say you didn't."

"I didn't." Hissed Oswald. "Honestly, man."

"Proceed, then."

"I took her upstairs. Gabe watched her, Paul found her cousin at another party. They went home."

"Am I missing something from this story? It doesn't seem particularly...eventful."

"She told me...something. On our way upstairs, she said she didn't want to die a virgin in a slut costume."

Edward snorted. "So? That doesn't make it true – she was drugged. But I guess there are those who still 'save themselves'. You know, for marriage, and whatnot."

Of course Edward couldn't be made to understand why that didn't seem like the case with Myla. He hadn't been there to see her the night before, pressed up against Oswald and sending off every signal that she wanted him short of pulling down his zipper. Oswald was definitely regretting that he hadn't taken her up to his room right about now. Tipsy or not, Myla appeared plenty ready and willing, and everything could have been made up for in the morning. God, just the thought that he could have been in bed with her at this very moment instead of Edward's odd apartment, feeling her skin against his, among other things… "I would think a choice like abstinence would be something she would have indulged me in by now." Last night, for example, would have been a prime opportunity.

"This is the girl you're toying with, right? The one who's trying so hard to believe your career is all 'rumors?'" Edward's expression was far too smug for Oswald's liking, but he was allowed to continue. "Believing can only get you so far, though, so maybe deep down she wonders if you would react poorly to her decision?"

The idea of Myla fearing him over something like that was beyond repulsive. "Rumors or not, I have been nothing but kind to her – she has absolutely no reason to think something like that of me."

"Then I guess it won't hurt to ask."

Oswald snorted. "Yes, and while I'm at it, maybe I can also ask about how her parents died."

"You can ask about a person's sexual history without being explicit, or insensitive." Edward felt his patience running thin. Oswald lack of serious relationship experience – or rather, his lack of experience with close personal relationships as a whole – was really showing. "How about you just focus on making up with her, then?"

Fuck. Oswald hadn't been thinking about that. There had never been anyone to make up with before – even with Edward, things always eventually just settled into a truce – and the circumstances between him and Myla were tricky, to say the least. Was it an acceptable thing to show up at her school or work to speak with her? Or does that fall into the category of "creepy" behavior. If only Myla hadn't left the cell phone; this might have been easily resolved if there was an option to call her. Wait – was that a bad sign? Did she mean to leave it behind?

Across the room, the teapot began to whistle on the stove. "At least she's sorry." Edward offered before standing up.

Yes, Myla had definitely looked remorseful – perhaps remorseful enough that she might come to him with a more sincere apology. He rather liked the sound of that – the opportunity to paint himself as a more forgiving, understanding person than he really was.

"You know," Oswald's teeth scraped lightly over his lip as he smiled, "I think she'll be back."


	12. Chapter 12

It was Christmas Eve, or, as Myla referred it, the tenth day that had passed since The Biting Incident.

She should have been excited for her family's annual movie marathon – especially since it was her year to pick the lineup – but it was hard to muster up excitement while she was feeling so stuck. Guilty, and stuck, and terrible.

Under any other circumstance, Myla probably would have let this all go. Remembering the act of biting someone would have been bothersome at best – and hell, this wouldn't have even been the first time she had broken things off with a guy by way of simply not speaking to him for a week or two – but this sort of thing had never happened with someone she genuinely liked. That detail was what made the way she left things off, well, unacceptable. For the love of God she had bit him. What kind of person even does that? Myla had spent the last two weeks re-playing the memory on a loop, not only to remind herself of how awful she felt, but also the fact that she must have looked like a spoiled, ungrateful hussy. After she spent the night in his house on account of him being concerned about her safety and everything. Work and school were able to somewhat detract her thoughts of it, but she was off school until February now, and work didn't require a whole lot of thought from her half the time. At this rate, Myla would drive herself insane if she didn't suck it up and clear the air with Oswald. Soon. Later. Maybe.

Rolling over, she reached under her bed and pulled out the gift she put together for him at the beginning of the month. Spending the Holidays with a boyfriend was another one of those things she had never been very indulgent in, so Myla had been excited to get Oswald a gift and do other special wintertime things and whatnot.

Last night, she had attempted to distract herself with baking, which resulted in two cakes. All it did was make her feel like she should give him the second cake. Baking was just about the only thing Myla felt she was fairly good at, and she was constantly baking for everyone. Homemade things always show great care and thoughtfulness about the people who make them. So, while probably not the proper etiquette for apologizing to someone you maimed, she thought the cake might be a start.

Well, now or never. Myla set the present down on the nightstand and pushed herself off the bed. Jasmine started to wake up after she turd on the light in their closet, illuminating the room, and probably aggravating a hangover related to last night's spiked eggnog.

"Why are you up." Jasmine groaned. "If you're calling movie time right now, I swear to God -"

"I'm taking a cake to the shelter, calm down." Myla quickly lied. "We're hours from movie time, trust me." She scanned through her side of the closet before remembering something of Jasmine's that would be well-suited for this purpose. The plum velvet dress was a standout amongst the black club dresses. Oswald seemed to very fond of his blues and purples, she had noticed. "Mind if I borrow this?"

Jasmine sat up to view the item, yawning obnoxiously loud. "Really – just to drop off a cake? At a shelter?"

"It's...a dog shelter. So, you know, they won't feel bad if I walk in looking fancy." Myla really should have thought this through. Then again, usually Jasmine didn't wake up this easily. "Can I please borrow it?"

"Whatever, sure." Jasmine laid back down. "Just take it."

With that blessing, Myla tossed the dress onto her bed and sped through her morning routine. She left her hair down to save time, in case Jasmine woke up again to ask more questions – going so far as to put on her shoes and coat in the kitchen in order to avoid that possibility.

Once she settled down in her car, Myla carefully padded the passengers seat with scarves and jackets her cousin was constantly leaving in the back, to keep the cake from getting ruined during the drive. She really wish she hadn't forgotten the cell phone at Oswald's house – it's so awkward to just show up to someone's house uninvited and without warning, possibly unwanted altogether. After taking several calming breaths while her car warmed up, Myla told her once again that this was the right thing to do. To apologize, and find out for sure whether or not things were over between them (but they definitely were, because guys don't date girls who bite them for no reason).

It was not a very fun drive. Every few minutes was spent contemplating ringing around and retreating to her bed for a little pity party, accompanied by the thought that he didn't want to see her anyway. She messed up too badly. Oswald definitely wasn't going to forgive her. Who in their right mind would? The anxiety only intensified when she pulled onto the narrow, single-lane road that lead to his house. Now there was really no turning back – how much weirder would it be if she was seen driving around his very secluded piece of property without any notice or apparent intent to see him? It would look like she was a stalker, that's what.

This was such a bad idea.

Since she decidedly didn't want to look like a stalker, she parked, although Myla still sat in in the car for a while longer, playing one final game of mental tug of war before stepping out. There was still the morbid hope that she might slip on the ice and crack her head on something before having the chance to endure what she imagined would be a spectacular and embarrassing failure awaiting inside. Instead she made her way across the driveway and up the steps without incident, regrettably unharmed.

There was still the chance that she wouldn't even make it inside. Myla bit her tongue and rang the doorbell. Maybe they were see who it was and ignore it, leaving her standing outside waiting like an idiot before heading home to think about her life. This was not the case either, as the door swung open in seconds.

"Miss Kozak." Butch greeted her warmly. "How are you, doll?" He ushered her inside and shut the door.

"Hey Butch." Myla responded weakly. "Merry Christmas."

"Same to you. Want me to get Oswald for you?"

"Yes, please. Oh – wait, wait." Balancing the boxes in one hand, Myla reached into her purse, withdrawing a Tupperware container. "I made sugar cookies."

Butch chuckled. "I am a sucker for a homemade cookie." He took a bite off a reindeer, looking (and sounding) very pleased by it. "I'll go get Oswald for you."

"Thanks." After he left the room, Myla started pacing back and forth, going over the things she wanted to say, practicing them in her head. She was so lost in thought she didn't notice the woman in the doorway at first, and then nearly had a heart attack when she finally did, almost dropping her parcels in the process.

"So easily frightened." The woman tutted. "Like a little bird."

She needed no formal introduction – accented English aside, Myla could tell by the steely eyes and similarly sharp features that this was the mother she had heard so much about. Myla hadn't even considered that she might here. Of course Oswald's mother would be staying at his house for Christmas. This venture was just getting better and better.

"Hello. I'm Myla." Myla offered. Just because she and Oswald were at odds, potentially not (probably weren't) dating anymore didn't give her the right to be standoffish.

"Yes, I know." Gertrud replied stiffly, clearly unimpressed with her. "As I am sure you know who I am."

Another thought suddenly occurred to Myla – it was heavily implied that Oswald told his mother just about everything, meaning Gertrud likely knew that she was speaking to the girl who bit her son.

If she did know, she was waiting to make a mention of it. Getrud stepped a little further into the room, circling Myla from a distance. "I admit, you are not the little whore I have been expecting all these years." She smiled, as if she had bestowed some great compliment on Myla by saying she wasn't a whore. Or, at least, not quite a whore. It was impossible to tell the exact intention of the comment. "So, Oswald tells me you are attending school?"

The tone of the question had a hint of something almost accusing. "Yes?" Myla shifted uncomfortably.

"And you work as well?"

That addition definitely sounded disdainful. "Yes, at a bakery." For such a simple, generic line of questioning, Myla was feeling awfully nervous.

"I see." Gertrud shook her head again. "No wonder you have no time for my son."

Well, that was unexpected. Was that what this was all about? Myla had been bracing herself for an angry talking-to by this tiny foreign woman, and instead found herself about to receive a lecture about the lack of time she was devoting to Oswald. He must have not told his mother about the biting after all.

Myla felt a lot better about this conversation now. "I make the time, when I can."

"It is still very unfortunate." Gertrud insisted.

"How so?"

"I am certain you have seen how important and busy my Oswald is." In spite of the borderline-hateful tone she had been sporting during their conversation, Gertrud still managed to take a break in order to smile with pride while speaking about her son. "He should not be having to work himself around you as well. You see?"

"I-I guess." Myla faltered. This was not the talk she had been preparing for at all, and was unsure of how to carry it on.

"Perhaps it is time for you to leave." Gertrud suggested coldly. "I think I would prefer Oswald in the company of whores over some silly little schoolgirl who thinks herself too good for him."

That struck a chord. Did she really come off that way? Did Oswald think she was some girl who was wasting his time? Leading him on?

"Mother."

Myla froze in surprise (and slight terror) when she heard Oswald's voice sound off directly behind her.

"Mother, I would like to speak with Myla for a moment. Alone." He clarified. "I'll rejoin you in the living room."

Gertrud's smile became something fake and complacent. "Of course, my darling." She turned around rather dramatically, in a way that made her dress audibly swish around her as she left the room. Myla heard Oswald sigh.

"Myla." Her name came through his lips as little more a whisper, but she couldn't detect any specific emotion behind it.

Still a little shaken over Gertrud's last words, Myla stared down at the floor as she turned toward Oswald. Keeping a calm expression was difficult enough without having to look at him. For all her efforts, all the mental buildup over the last few days, she still didn't feel prepared for this. She actually felt seconds away from crying when she held out the presents. God, she was such a pathetic mess.

"I just wanted to stop by and tell you that I'm sorry about everything." Myla mumbled, continuing to stare at the floor. It was easier that way. "Anyway, you're busy, so...I'll leave now."

Oswald set the gifts down on a nearby table. "You're acting as though I don't want you here."

"Well, why would you?" Was he going to make her explain it? "What I did to you was awful."

"Regardless, I'm still glad to see you."

Was he joking? He had to be. There was no way he was forgiving her this easily. "Aren't you...angry?"

"Not quite." Shocked? Yes. Intrigued? Definitely – but not angry. "Now would you look at me, please, Myla?"

She did, and he really didn't look at all upset by her presence.

"In return, I would also like to apologize. I am very sorry if I overstepped, or made you feel at all uncomfortable the last time you were here."

What alternate universe was this? The man she bit was apologizing to her. Out of all the out-there scenarios she had thought about, this one did not make the list. "It's...fine." She answered lamely. "I don't know why I reacted like that." It was mostly true, but she wasn't ready to explain why on a deeper level. The situation felt too delicate already.

Oswald took her hand, equally glad that things were going so smoothly. "I feel like I should also apologize for whatever my mother said to you. It...did not sound kind."

What and understatement. "Don't even worry about it."

"Actually, that is something I need to take responsibility for." Oswald appeared momentarily sheepish. "She wanted to meet you, but since I was unable to call you I told her you were busy." He grimaced at the memory. "It would appear she took it less well than she previously let on."

Right. She had almost completely forgotten about the phone. "I actually didn't mean to leave the phone here."

"That would have been a relief to know before." Oswald admitted. "Honestly, I couldn't be sure." He brushed his thumb across the back of her hand, and she smiled brightly at him, before pulling it free from his grasp to encircle him in a hug.

"So...it's all behind us then?" He asked hopefully.

"Yes."

There were very few things in the world Oswald appreciated more than being right, and this felt like a particularly special victory. Myla hugged him tighter, pulling their body even closer together, and he caught that odd but enticing frosting and mint scent of her hair and smiled. "I really did miss you." He murmured.

"Me too." Oswald's hands slid around her waist, his lips pressed to her neck. "We could speak even more privately, if you want." Myla said quietly, feeling her skin grow hot from the implication of her suggestion.

While that sort of alone time Myla would have made for an excellent Christmas present, Oswald knew how impatient his mother was getting, and the dramatic conversation that was likely to ensue within the hour. It would have to wait.

"Another time." He placed a gentle kiss on lips, the act of pulling her hands off him was almost painful. "For now, I hope you'll accept this back," he withdrew her cell phone from his pocket and pressed it into her palm, "and agree to have dinner with me in a few days?"

Myla shoved her hand into her coat and nodded. "Yeah, I guess I should go. Jasmine says she has a 'special announcement' for us today."

"Better head home then." Oswald smiled, already aware of the secret. "Enjoy your pajama party."He held the front door open for her, and Myla stood on her toes to give him another kiss before stepping out.

"Merry Christmas, Oz."


	13. Chapter 13

Jasmine had been hyping up a supposedly amazing Christmas present for the family all December long. The rest of the Kozak's wouldn't necessarily say they didn't believe her, but Jasmine was as terrible at keeping secrets as Myla was at lying, so they assumed at the very least she was overselling it.

It was quite the impressive surprise when Myla opened her present to find the key to a "darling" apartment Jasmine had found for them not far from her new job.

It was probably an equally impressive surprise when Liv and Roy received keys as well – keys to the new home for them in midtown that Jasmine just closed on – but Myla was too busy thinking about how accurate the phase "thrown under the bus" feels. How betrayal can feel like the wind has been forced out you as your insides are being ripped to shreds. And she didn't care how over-dramatic that all sounded, because Jasmine had just thrown her under the bus in the worst possible way. Snatched up Myla's idea – the goal she had been working toward for almost seven years – just like that. No warning. No attempt to include her.

While everyone else left to check out the new place, Myla shut off the lights and laid down in front of the Christmas tree to think about her life, and how much she was currently hating it. Thinking to herself "how could she?", but also knowing how typical a stunt it was for Jasmine to pull. It was just like her to swoop in and take credit for something like this, and it didn't help that she had become especially insufferable lately, suddenly believing herself to be some hotshot successful adult, working overtime to attempt to dictate everything Myla was doing. Not that she was succeeding – especially over the last couple weeks, what with the "break" she had taken from Oswald. With nothing of significance for Jasmine to bust her on, Myla just ignored her.

Oswald. Boy, was that was getting old, being in a relationship she felt like she couldn't talk about. Not ten days ago he was talking about feelings and futures and moving her into his house. The biting likely scared him off a little, but she doubted those thoughts had left his mind completely. He viewed their relationship as something serious and maybe even permanent – meanwhile Myla hadn't even told her best friend any real details about the person she was seeing. She was going to have to tell Jasmine sooner or later. If they were going to be living alone together, paying half the rent, she wanted to be able to do normal couple things, like having her boyfriend over. Lord knows her cousin wouldn't be shy about inviting hers.

The thought that Jasmine might view a relationship she had labeled expressly forbidden as an equal betrayal as buying a house behind Myla's back was also a factor.

She almost called Oswald to tell him everything, but the poor man was probably just trying to enjoy Christmas with his mother, and didn't need to hear her venting. Myla felt like she as treading on thin ice as it was, having barely patched things up between them

So this would be dealt with alone, for now. Alright. She could do that. Pushing herself off the floor, Myla grabbed a few of the emptied present boxes. If there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty, it was that Jasmine couldn't be counted on to help pack.


	14. Chapter 14

The move-in date was New Years, which Jasmine expressed was "a sign": starting off the New Year in new surroundings. Myla wasn't as upset anymore, but she wasn't ready to be excited either – not even after she saw how big her new room – the room that she was getting all to herself – was.

The only she had to look forward to on moving day was Jen, Myla's friend, and the only one who readily offered herself up to help them move. Really, Jen Morris could probably be considered a "best friend", if Myla thought more of herself, but friends were hard to come by for her at all. Keeping them was the most challenging bit honestly; friendships required this certain level of maintenance that Myla simply wasn't good at maintaining, but Jen was an exception. The type of friend that you can pick things up right where they left off, no matter how long it's been. Myla still made attempts to hang out with Jen as often as she could, though. Any chance she could be around someone and have it feel effortless was a chance she took.

Predictably, it was left to Myla and Jen to do the bulk of the unpacking, as Jasmine found an excuse to bail the second the moving guys brought up the last box. Jen didn't mind, because she was just that great. Myla was also secretly grateful for Jasmine's departure anyway, having looked forward to quality friendship alone time with someone she actually felt comfortable talking to. Jen had been told about Oswald in the absolute vaguest possible terms, but with everything that had been going on the last month, Myla was more than ready to fully vent to someone and ask advice.

After unpacking the kitchen and shifting around the furniture in the living room, the pair settled down on the couch with the pizza that had just arrived.

"I'm glad you finally have your own place." Jen grinned. "I'm coming here all the time, you know. Fuck I feel like we haven't hung out in a while." Liv and Roy had always been considerably less-than welcome of guests.

"Yeah." Myla agreed, while trying to figure out how to approach the subject that she really wanted to discuss. "Hey, so, you know how I've been using you as a cover to see that guy?"

"Ugh, yes." Jen made a face.

"Well, I'm ready to say more."

Jen paused mid-bite, half the slice already in her mouth. "Really?" She swallowed the food so quickly Myla feared she would choke. "Oh my god." She scooted closer.

"Would you like to open with a question?"

"How long has this really been going on for?"

"Since October – I wasn't lying about that."

"Fair enough," Jen shrugged, "but still, why all the secrecy?"

"It's...complicated." Myla said sheepishly.

Jen made the face again. "I hate those words MK – what's wrong with him?"

"Nothing is wrong with him, I swear. It's Jasmine."

"Jazz?" Jen asked. "Are you dating one of her gross exes? You're supposed to be the one with better standards, dude."

"Not an ex – her boss." Myla explained, watching her friend's expression quickly turn to one of exasperation.

"Doesn't she work for, like, a mob bar or something? Like a MOB bar?"

Actually, she works for a restaurant now." Myla corrected, as if it changed anything.

Jen saw right through that one. "But it's owned by the same guy who runs the MOB bar, yeah?"

Whole lot of good that did her. Myla bit her tongue before answering. "Yes."

Jen set her crust down, folding her hands in front of her. "Well," she sighed, "let's try to salvage this conversation, because I still want the details. I'm guessing you met through Jasmine, but how did he ask you out?"

"It was pretty sweet." Myla had expected these sort of questions and more, but there was the matter of pressure to make him sound as likable as she felt he was. "He left flowers at my work for a few weeks, and one of them had a card that said to meet him at a restaurant."

"That's some romantic shit." Jen nodded approvingly. "Continue – how serious is this?"

"Kind of serious, I guess? He seems in it to win it – talking about moving in and stuff like that." She honestly hadn't thought that offer would still be available to her, but dinner with Oswald last week had confirmed that he still very much wanted Myla to get comfortable with the idea "in the very near future".

"That's pretty quick."

"I know, right?" Myla had hardly ever made it to a point where she learned a guy's middle name, much less made the step of moving in with someone who wasn't family.

"But, I mean, how nice is his apartment though?"

"Oh, he doesn't have an apartment." Myla snorted, recalling the Oscar Wilde fantasy dream house she had spent the night in. "He has this ridiculous house over Graham Bridge. It has half a dozen fireplaces and a chicken coup – it's ridiculous."

Jen was not impressed by her choice of description "Fireplaces and chickens. I'm sure there are more interesting things there, but okay."

Myla shrugged. "I've never known anyone who owned chickens before, so sue me."

"Okay then." Jen stole the last slice, like the stone cold bitch she was. "So he's rich, I take it?"

"I mean, you would have to be, to live in a place like that."

Jen started chewing her food more slowly, in part to savor it, but mostly to think of more things to ask. "So, do I get a name? What does he even look like?"

"Let's keep it as Oz. It's what I've been calling him anyway." Myla finally allowed herself to smile. "Um, I guess he's on the shorter side. Black hair, grey eyes – extremely well dressed – and paler than you, if you can believe it." Myla nibbled on her crust. "I think he was a smoker."

"Bad teeth?"

"Not bad, but a little yellow. He never smells or tastes like smoke, but I've always wondered." Now was time to drop the big one. "He's also older."

"How much older?" Jen asked.

"Like, ten years?" Give or take – Myla had still been too embarrassed to ask for sure, and it never seemed to come up. She figured he had to have a birthday at some point.

"Hm, older than I would go, but early thirties isn't bad." Jen assured her. "Not like he's some geezer."

"Yeah...and I really like him. He's so polite, and interesting, and he wears these suits all the time." Oh God, those suits. Myla couldn't believe how long she had lived while being so unappreciative of suits.

"Wow, fancy." Her friend agreed. "So the relationship is good? There's nothing wrong with him? He treats you nice?"

Myla took a moment to think. "I mean, his mom didn't seem to like me when I met her, but he's wonderful."

"Is it even possible to get along with your boyfriend's mother?" Jen laughed, tossing the empty pizza box towards the door. "How the sex, though?"

Myla choked on her soda. That was a rather unexpected change of topic, but that was how Jen played things.

"I see." Jen shot Myla a wicked grin. "Haven't gone there yet, huh?"

"No." Myla coughed out.

"I just figured that with all this secrecy you would definitely be boning this guy." The soda cans she threw near the pizza box clattered loudly on the tile. "Have you at least talked? Filled him in on your nonexistent sexual past?"

"For what?"

"I mean, it's just kind of the thing to do. Plus, remember what happened with Dad Jokes?"

Dad Jokes was the "covert" nickname given to the man Myla had crushed on and nearly slept with when she was fresh out of high school. It fit because he wore khaki's and sweater-vests, prattled on trivia no one asked for, and was generally very awkward in the way he attempted to relate to them, even though he really wasn't much older than them at all. A very sweet, safe choice – or so she had thought, anyway. "This isn't at all like the Dad Jokes situation and you know it."

Jen stood up and stretched a little, figuring they could start unpacking again while they talked. "I'm just saying, you moped forever on how you should've said something to Dad Jokes, so maybe this guy Oz should know. Or maybe not. Wait until I meet him and decide if he's worthy of taking your 'flower'." She opened a small, unmarked box, expecting to see some objects out of her friend's extensive collection of teacups and knickknacks. "What the fuck, Jazz..." She mumbled. "Who the fuck keeps loose files in a box?"

"She would." Myla rolled her eyes, standing up with the intention to take the box to Jasmine's room.

"These look pretty important – I think is the loan contract she took out for her folks place." Even though the papers lacked the name of bank, that's definitely what they appeared to be. "Oswald Cobblepot." Jen snorted. "What a banker name...Sounds kind of familiar though."

Myla's ears pricked up at the sound of his name, and she froze. Jasmine had gotten her loan from Oswald? Why didn't he tell her? Jen handed her the papers, not noticing the sudden tension. "You should put these someplace safer."

She knew it was wrong – a total invasion of privacy and all that – but curiosity far outweighed any decency Jasmine was owed. Everything seemed pretty standard through the first few pages, and Myla very nearly put the whole thing down. Almost, until she saw her name. Myla Ophelia Kozak. Did Jasmine put her down as a reference or cosigner? Is that how she got it? She flipped ahead a couple pages more, and was floored by what she found. This contract acknowledged that Oswald and Myla were dating. Jasmine knew? For how long? Why hadn't she said anything? Further in was a clear set of rules for their dating life, down to a curfew. A curfew. Like a teenager. Myla was going to be sick.

"Hey, Jen?" Her words were accompanied by a sort of out of body feeling, like she was running on autopilot again. "I think you should go."

Jen looked around, confused. They had barely even gotten started. "Should I come back in a few hours, then?"

"I'll just...I'll call you tomorrow okay?"

"Is everything alright?" Jen asked slowly.

"I'm gonna be strait with you Jen: it's not." Myla's voice was sharp and blunt – two characteristics no one would ever think to apply to her. "You shouldn't be here when Jasmine gets back."

Jen actually seemed scared, and Myla wondered what sort expression she had that would make Jen want to leave so quickly and without further convincing. In any case, once she was alone, Myla sat back down on the couch to go through the contract page by page, trying to make sense of everything. It was, without a doubt, the strangest thing she had expected to encounter, but there was some comfort in the late November date accompanying their signatures. At least this contract hadn't been specifically made with her romantic life in mind. Really, it all appeared very blackmail-ish, coming from Jasmine's end - "in return for discretion". Myla would expected Jasmine to put a sledgehammer through the relationship when she found out, over using that knowledge to get money and a fancy new job, but apparently that had been a wrong assumption.

Once she was through, Myla began putting what few boxes of her own she had bothered to bring up that day back into her car, remembering how there "hadn't been room" for her things in the moving truck. Jasmine's selfishness had always been a defining trait of hers, but Myla had always been able to look past it. Until now.

Another hour or so passed after that. Clearly Jasmine had been hoping to waste as much of the day as possible before "helping", but soon enough, Myla heard the key in the door, steeling herself as her cousin entered what was supposed to be their new home.

"Wow, you guys barely made a dent in this." Jasmine commented, setting her things down on the counter. "Where's Jen?"

"I asked her to come back later." Myla said, calmly as she could manage. It was hard to control herself like that, while she was feeling more betrayed and angry than she ever had in her life.

Jasmine didn't catch on to anything, and casually walked into the living room to join her on the couch. "It's fine if you're tired – we'll get at it tomorrow." She did notice when Myla wouldn't look at her. Another second and she realized that her cousin's gaze was focused on something else. And then Jasmine noticed the contract on the coffee table. "Oh, fuck me..."

"Next time, I would invest in a file box, instead of a cardboard one."

"Myla..." Jasmine sighed, almost seeming more annoyed that she had been caught, instead of embarrassed or ashamed like Myla had wanted her to be. "You don't understand -"

This was off to a poor start, not that Myla had expected otherwise. "Don't understand?" Myla interrupted, incredulous. "You made a contract about my dating life. Initiated by YOU, for MONEY."

"Hey, hey – this could have all been avoided, you know." Jasmine fired back defensively. "What the fuck did I tell you about my boss? Not to even speak to him, right? And somehow you're dating him?"

"Don't." Myla hissed. "You are not turning this on me."

"Whatever." Jasmine tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You know what? I'm glad you found out about this."

Myla let out a snort. This would be good. "Oh?"

"Well, yeah – you see that this isn't the type of man you should be with, right?"

"How, exactly?"

"Um, hello?" Jasmine looked at her cousin like she was mental. "Half this contract is his, Myla."

Did Jasmine thing she was an idiot? Myla was the one who taught her about contracts – when she was learning about them in order to get _her_ parents a damn house. All the stipulations involving her were clearly not for her benefit. Why would Oswald want her to have a curfew? To not be able to spend the night with her unless there was a "weather exception"?

"Come one now. You can't tell me this paper isn't fucked up."

Myla hit pause for a moment. She didn't want to explode, not yet. "You want to know what's messed up?" She asked. "How angry I was at you. After Christmas, when you gave Live and Roy the keys, I was so mad, and jealous. You stole my idea, you stole my thunder – I don't want to hear your excuses for not including me, Jasmine -" she said harshly, when Jasmine started to open her mouth. "I was so angry at you, I couldn't speak. I just laid in the apartment, in the dark, trying to process it. I was still working through it today. I kept trying to tell myself that I was being ridiculous – it shouldn't have been about who gets credit. I shouldn't have wanted to do it just to hear them say that raising me wasn't waste of time. Setting up the people who took care of me was just the right thing to do, and now they're taken care of.

But," Myla bit her tongue for a moment, "now I have come to find, that not only did you rob me of what had become my life's goal – you used my relationship to take it from me. And gave it 'rules' to boot."

"Those were to protect you." Jasmine interjected, as if the rest of Myla's speech hadn't mattered.

"From what?" Myla was yelling – actually yelling – now. She was beyond sick of this, of Jasmine inability to take responsibility for anything.

"From him." Jasmine yelled back. "Tell me you've noticed that something isn't right about this man?"

"Can't say I have." Myla shot back. "He's nicer than any skeez you've bagged."

"Penguin is an evil person." Jasmine continued over the screeching. "I'm sure he hasn't let you see that rotten side of him, but if you stick around I promise you will."

"Why should I believe you? You sold me."

"Yeah, well," Jasmine threw up her hands. "if I sold you, he bought you – that's just as bad."

"Except it's really not. You see, I was already dating him, and the money was to leave us alone. According to this," Myla slammed her hand down on the contract so hard her palm tingled, "I can break up with Oswald any time as long as you don't force me to. Being able to leave someone isn't really the same as being 'owned' by them, wouldn't you say?" Myla spat. "And, honestly Jasmine, if you really think he's that awful – why'd you take the risk? I'm your family, you say I'm your sister." Her voice got a little sad. "If you thought he was bad and might hurt me, you wouldn't have done this. And if this really was his offer, you should have told him to _fuck_ _off_ and you should have _left_."

Jasmine's jaw dropped, her complexion paling considerably when she heard the expletive leaving her cousin's mouth. Myla never cursed. Never.

And then Myla walked to the door, leaving Jasmine stunned.

"Where are you going?" Jasmine managed to ask.

"This...is not going to work out." Myla said stiffly, not bothering to turn. "I can't even look at you."

Taking her keys from the hook, Myla unclasped the apartment key, tossing it. She heard it land with a dull thud onto the carpet as she walked out the door.


	15. Chapter 15

Of course, Myla had to come down from the argument at some point. Realizing you don't have a place to live anymore is pretty sobering. Jen had two roommates, and not to mention she would bother her about what happened with Jasmine. She had a few school friends, but didn't consider them close enough to ask to couch surf with them for a night or two. Maybe that one guy still lived in the same place – and she was somewhat near his neighborhood – but he probably hd a live-in girlfriend or something by now. Plus it wasn't as if they had left things good. Myla wasn't looking to walk into more drama.

At first, Oswald's place didn't feel like an option either, but after a few hours of driving around, she thought to herself how cathartic it would feel to start breaking those stupid rule's Jasmine set for her. Straying out past her "curfew" AND spending the night seemed like the perfect act of defiance to break it in.

Myla pulled over and dialed him up, anxiously tapping on the steering wheel as it rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey." She started. "Are you home right now?"

"I am." Oswald answered, sounding a bit confused by the strange jumpiness in her voice.

"Can I come over?"

Oswald didn't want to say no to her, but he also didn't trust himself to make her leave before midnight because, well, he wouldn't want her to leave. "Are you sure?" He asked. "It's getting sort of late."

"Okay, but do you actually care how late it is? Do you really?" Myla didn't mean for it to come out sounding so snarky, but it happened. And she didn't care. She didn't want him to care about Jasmine's rules.

The tone definitely caught him off guard. "I suppose not."

"Then I'll see you soon." Throwing the car into drive, she hit end before he could say anything else. With a destination in mind, the night felt alive again. She could worry about living arrangements later. Call up Jen in the morning. Make a plan.

Myla blew through stop signs, speeding out of the city and over the bridge, she made it onto that creepy, single lane road in no time. The car gave off a groan when she parked, unappreciative of her haste. She even slammed the door for good measure, before sprinting up to his doorstep. Oswald opened it before she could ring the doorbell. He had been waiting for her.

"That was quick."

Myla laughed. "I didn't drive here very carefully." It was such a rush to be there. How pissed would Jasmine be if she knew? That almost tempted Myla to call her.

"What's the urgency?" Oswald took her coat and hung it up. "Didn't you move today?"

"Uh, yeah." Myla remembered she was still in her moving outfit of leggings and a tunic, hair up in a messy bun. Oh well. "That's, um...It's not gonna work out."

"May I ask why?" Of course Oswald was eager for an explanation, but also didn't want to look to much into it.

"I don't want to talk about it." Myla stated with a surprising frankness that didn't match up with the breathless exhilaration she had come through the door sporting. "Maybe not ever – but it's fine." She walked further away from the door, Oswald trailing behind her.

"Do you have someplace to stay in the meantime, then?" He asked, looking concerned. She had been so….methodical before. Careful. This situation felt very off to him.

"I thought I'd stay the night here – I'll figure it out tomorrow. I have a lot of money saved up – thanks to Jasmine." She noted bitterly.

Ah. This was about the house. That made him feel a bit better. "You know, you're welcome stay here as long as you like."

"I know, but I was such a terrible house guest to you before." She snorted – that was putting it very lightly. "I swear, I'll never understand why you want me around so badly."

Oswald continued to follow her around, even though Myla didn't appear to have any objective. Just looking around, picking things up. Observing, musing. Enchanting. There were many reason he wanted her to live with him. Oswald enjoyed her company, wanted to see more of her, have more frequent and convenient access in order to see and enjoy her. And, he would lying if it didn't also have a great deal to do with his work and her safety.

It hadn't been a lie at all when Oswald told her he hadn't experienced many romantic pursuits, and that inexperience had lead to a particular oversight – a man in a powerful position such as his came with a significant probability of loved ones being put at risk. This hadn't been an issue before, as Oswald had very few people in his company which he cared about, and even fewer that required protection. His mother, of course she was given a top priority security detail – and now it would seem there was Myla. Naive, overly-trusting, and vulnerable Myla, who aimlessly roamed through the streets of Gotham without a care in the world. The few times he had requested her to be tracked only drew that much more attention to their relationship, but if she were living with him, such a thing wouldn't seem so inherently dangerous. Risks of her being taken, harmed, manipulated, or otherwise used against him would be greatly lowered. Oswald did not care to make the choice between a girl and his budding legacy, because she would surely lose, but as any powerful man will tell you – he wanted, and deserved, to have everything.

"I believe I made it clear that I keep the things I want close to me."

There was something Myla felt was off about that statement, but she was too wired to look into it. "Fair enough. I'll consider it."

"You should sleep on it." Perhaps Oswald was being too quick to suggest this, but the more he tried to remain neutral on the situation, the less he trusted himself.

Okay, strait to bed then. Myla had thought about this. That was a lie – no she hadn't – but she was fine with it. She was fine. "Sure."

"You can borrow my pajamas again, if you would rather not go to your car." He offered, leading her back through the house.

"Aren't you coming?"

No. Dear Lord, no. He was actually feeling a bit panicked. Myla in his house again. Myla in his bed. Oswald debated going upstairs later at all – perhaps he would just drink again. Drink until going to her seemed less of a plausible option and more like an impossible Olympic feat.

So he lied. Nothing new. "In a bit, yes." He guided her to the stairway. "Just try to get some sleep. No need to wait for me."

Myla nervously returned his smile. "Okay."

He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching her ascend, and waited until he heard a door close before shutting himself into his study. Fuck. What did he just do? Myla was upstairs. She was in his room. Undressing and climbing into his bed. Fuck. Oswald poured himself a drink. Downed it. Fuck. He may have wanted her to move in, but assumed they would have already been intimate by the time she did so. Surely he couldn't be expected to sleep innocently beside her.

Oswald sat down, fresh drink in hand, and sighed, wondering what to do about the situation. He never guessed Myla would pull something so...impulsive. This required some retooling. He turned when he heard the door creak open, and Myla stepped inside, quickly shutting the door behind her.

He set his drink down, managing a half-smile. "I thought you were going to sleep?"

Myla shook her head. "I wanted to talk to you."

"I'll be up soon." Just get ready for bed." Oswald figured he would at the very least wait until she fell asleep, doubting the urge to violate her would be nearly as strong with her in that state.

She started crossing the room toward him very slowly, and Oswald noticed she was just wearing that long shirt now, barefoot with her hair down.

"You want me here, right?"

The question surprised him. "Of course I do."

"Because you seem weird about it."

How the hell was he supposed to respond to that? There was no pleasant or respectful way to discuss that his lust for her was currently driving him to the brink of insanity. That at this very moment he felt scarcely able to be alone with her free from the desire to bend her over the nearest surface and shove himself inside. "I do apologize for any misunderstanding, it's just that I'm...very busy." Now he looked like an ass. Clearly he had been sitting around and drinking this whole time.

Myla noticed her hands were beginning to shake a little, mostly because of the effort she was making to keep them away from her hair. She didn't want to look too fidgety while she spoke to him. There had been so much more resolve in her when she was alone upstairs. At first she had been nervous, of course – even more nervous than she was right now. Laying in Oswald's bed in the dark, thinking about how any minute he was supposed to climb into that same bed with her. Thinking about his hands on her skin, and realizing that she was disappointed by how long he was taking.

"Yeah." Myla swallowed. "I guess you've always been a busy person. There was no reason to call him out on his lie, and she certainly wasn't looking to start an argument. There were better ways to clear the air. She leaned against the edge of his desk. "But it looks like you're almost done."

"Just a minute longer – I promise."

However, she wasn't willing to allow two lies to escape her. Myla didn't want to feel like this was all something wrong. She pushed herself away from the desk and climbed into his lap, straddling him. Oswald leaned back in surprise, trying not to stare at the way the fabric of her shirt bunched up around her hips, exposing her thighs. Then Myla took his face in her hands, tilting it up so he would look at her.

"I need to know that everything is okay." She wasn't about to let herself enter another situation where she would be looked after out of obligation. "Say you want me here. That you won't be annoyed or upset about this later if I move in with you right now."

Oswald clenched his fists. She was getting bold, but boldness isn't always an invitation, and Myla was trying to approach something serious that had no place being intruded upon by thoughts of tearing that shirt from her form. "I couldn't be." He answered curtly. "Never. I really, truly want you here."

"Good." Her hands moved down, lightly gripping the lapels of his jacket. Fuck, she didn't have a clue what sort of door she was opening. Myla kissed him, and it was so soft and sweet that Oswald felt almost guilty for all his violent fantasies of her.

When she pulled away, she slid the jacket off his shoulders. He helped her finish removing it, and tossed it on the floor. His vest followed. Suspenders. The tie. Myla brought her hand up to the buttons of his shirt, feeling lightheaded as she slipped each of them out of place. There was another shirt under that too. The layers were frustrating, made things a bit more nerve-wracking, but she was still going to do this. Really, really going to do this with him. Oswald reached down to grab the hem of her shirt, and Myla held her breath as he slowly pulled it over her head.

There was a bit of a mental struggle as Oswald went to decide what to do with her next. "Shouldn't we go upstairs?" Yes, to their room. The bed was there. Brilliant.

"Is anyone going to bother us here?" Myla folded her arms over her stomach, the pause in action and realization of her near-nudity making her stomach churn and mind race toward second-guessing.

Theoretically, anyone could come knocking on the door at any give my time and that would all be very awkward, but it was pretty unlikely. He did like the thought of fucking her in the study – perhaps on the desk – being able to watch his cock sink into her in a way the bed would limit. Plus, there were cameras, and it would be a real treat to have their first lovemaking on film.

"Yeah." He breathed. "Alright." Oswald pulled her back, until she was pressed against him, and he could feel how hard Myla's heart was pounding in her chest, in a way that made her whole body vibrate with every beat. Holding the kiss, he ran his hands up her legs, over her sides. One hand continued upward to grab a loose fistful of hair at the base of her head. Myla sucked in a breath as the other slid back down, over her stomach and between her thighs, into her underwear. She rocked her hips unsteadily into his palm, shuddering when she felt his fingers curl inside her. For a moment she thought about what Jen told her earlier. The last time Myla was in a situation like this, where the next step felt impending, and not just a maybe, she remembered wanting to say something about how she had never had sex before. She didn't, because she was young (well, younger), and wanted Dad Jokes to like her, and was more worried about making things weird. On the drive to his place, Myla told herself that she would be up for anything he wanted. At first, it looked like he was make good on her willingness – she was confused when he stopped and told her to leave. It had taken her a while to accept that even though the incident had left her feeling a little heartbroken, she was secretly grateful for it.

To say things things were different now was understatement, and it just didn't feel necessary to talk about it. Myla wasn't concerned about awkwardness, and she wasn't doing this just because she thought it would make him happy or like her more. Her inexperience was probably obvious anyway, with the way she was blushing and whimpering and panting and oh God this was all so embarrassing in the full light of his study. There was opportunity for distraction when she felt a sudden hardness beneath her. Reciprocating was good, right? Oswald was mildly stunned to feel her undoing his pants, hand slipping in to draw him out. Myla couldn't bring herself to look at it, but his cock felt smooth and hot in her palm when she wrapped her hand around it, matching him stroke for stroke until he became the same panting mess she was. That actually made her feel quite a bit better.

Oswald lurched forward to grab something off his desk, and a moment letter she felt the cold metal of his letter opener on her hip, before he used it to cut off her underwear. It was a strangely attractive move, abet an impatient one. The urgency had Myla feeling especially attractive.

And then scared, when she felt his cock brush over the newly exposed area.

Even scarier when he reached down to grab it, pressing it against her with purpose until the swollen head was inside. Myla stiffened at the feeling, but didn't protest; Oswald held her gaze as his hands wrapped themselves around her waist, slowly pushing, impaling her. He wanted to remember everything about this – especially the way her face looked when he entered her, and she didn't disappoint. There was fear and confusion and lust in her expression, making for rather intoxicating display of emotion, while her inner walls squeezed him torturously, twitching and spasming at his invasion. Myla felt a sharp pain – not unlike a paper cut – as he quickly pushed the rest of the way inside, letting out a groan of satisfaction. He didn't waste any time, firmly gripping her hips to guide her movements while she held onto his shoulders.

Thus far, sex wasn't turning out to be the painful, bloody massacre she had been warned to expect throughout her adolescence (not that Myla ever really believed it would be), but she did find herself sort of regretting that she passed on Oswald's offer to move things to the bedroom. Not that it seemed to matter at this moment, but Myla sure didn't know about what she should be doing. How to move, what to say. Perhaps this was the reason most girls choose to lay on their backs in the dark the first time. Myla held onto him, and kissed him while he carried things along, hoping that it felt like enough. She wasn't sexy or experienced, but she was enough. She really wanted to be enough.

Oswald's nails dug into her waist when he tried to move more forcefully. Novel as it was to fuck her in his desk chair, it was pretty limiting. "Let's go upstairs." He panted. "Please, please, let me take you to my bed."

Thank God. Myla bit her lip and nodded, but tried not to seem too eager about it. Getting off the chair while he was still inside her was a process all in itself, but she managed, stooping down to pick up her clothes, yanking the tunic over head. Oswald pushed himself up, hastily hitching up his pants before taking Myla's hand to lead her to the bedroom.

He made sure to lock the door before coming up behind her, pulling her shirt back off and pushing her hair aside, leaning down to kiss her neck. Myla took his hand again, pulling him toward the bed with her before helping him finish undressing, loving the way he was looking at her. Like she was all that mattered. His body was pale and scarred, but warm all the same when he pressed his skin to hers, dragging her down onto mattress. Oswald slid between her legs and pushed into her again. It felt different this way. Deeper? And it stung a little when he moved, but still not enough that she would consider it painful. Everything about it was overwhelming in the best way: the weight of his body, and the way he kissed her while moving in and out of her so fluidly that it made her stomach flutter. He told her to tilt up her hips a little, the action rewarded by a spark of pleasure. The feeling built up, hotter and bigger with each stroke until she came. Oswald let out a groan of "oh, fuck" when he felt her core contract around him, loving the way she clung onto him and gasped frantically in his ear.

He was right behind her, spilling his release onto her stomach. He hovered above her for a few moments longer, gasping and shaking, and then finally rolled off to the side.

"Sorry." He said after a few minutes had passed.

"For what?"

"You're bleeding." Oswald didn't want her to panic, but there was simply no ignoring the red smeared over their thighs – clearly fresh blood, judging by the brightness. So, that had been her first time after all. "I must have cut you earlier."

"Oh." Fortunately, Myla didn't panic, but she did become a little shaken when she looked down. No one she knew had ever bled from sex before. Honestly, she had regarded it as another myth until now.

"The bathroom is through there." He gestured to the doors on the immediate left, then kissed her cheek. "Why don't you start us a shower?"

Myla nodded meekly and got up from the bed, a little grossed out by the feeling of his cum streaking down her abdomen and thighs on her way to the bathroom. Condoms. Those were a thing. She had come here so wound up, impulsive and eager to break rules, that she hadn't even thought about things like basic protection. With her hair pulled up, she stepped into the shower the minute the water was hot enough, quickly scrubbing away the sweat, blood, and cum. Myla felt very on edge all of a sudden, and couldn't say for sure if it was the gravity of what she had just done with Oswald hitting her, or if the events of the entire day had been quietly snowballing, and she just so happened to be receiving its ill effects at the worst time.

And maybe it was the sudden stress making it look that way, but it sure seemed like she had bled a lot. She thought to herself that there was no way this could be normal. It had been five minutes at least, and the water was still pink.

"Are you alright?"

Apparently, the pink water was so entrancing that she hadn't noticed when Oswald stepped into the shower with her.

"Fine." She said sharply. While sporting that odd, eerie, wide-eyed look on her face, Myla was clearly not fine. He had so much of her blood on him. Oswald stepped under the spray and pulled her into a hug, but all it did was make Myla feel sick at the sticky feeling of blood bonding their skin together. She looked down and saw the water turning pink again.

He felt the way her body tensed. "Are you sure?"

"I don't know." She mumbled.

That was a worrisome answer. Oswald had been careful not to be too terribly demanding of her – she had definitely wanted him to fuck her, and made sure she came before he did. Maybe she was feeling guilty. Perhaps he should have sprung for candles and rose petals and asked if things hurt every three seconds, or whatever the hell you're supposed to do for a girls first time to make it "special".

"Myla." He sing-songed her name to mask the impatience he was feeling. "You need to tell me what's wrong."

"It's just that..." She hesitated, because she still didn't know what the truth of it was. "I was moving today...and now I'm here."

Hm. So this was more about Jasmine than him. Good to know. "You can worry about that in the morning."

"Yeah." Oswald was right. Not like these problems were going anywhere. Why make a big deal out of them now? They finished showering together and dried off.

Oswald pulled her back into bed, kissed her shoulder as he pulled her close, curling up against her. She liked everything about this: the cool sheets and his warm body, his slow, steady breathing and his hands on her bare skin. No embarrassment or awkwardness, just satisfaction and peace. Everything else could be dealt with in the morning.


	16. Chapter 16

Myla soon found that Oswald kept a very odd and inconsistent schedule. There were some nights he slept beside her, most nights he didn't. He always seemed to be up and about, and she wondered whether Oswald was one of those types who could function extremely well on very little sleep, if he slept in rooms she hadn't found yet – maybe he had a place to sleep when he went into town. In any case, Myla did know that on the days she worked, she always arrive back to find him awake, dressed, and waiting for her.

There was something exciting, in a dirty little way, in having her come home to him. Watching how how she would blush when he cornered her, raking his nails up the thigh as he whispered to her how good she was going to feel around his cock once they got upstairs. Such a treat, his wide-eyed, submissive Myla was to him.

Overall, she was quite the cooperative housemate. Perhaps it rooted in the desire to prove herself as a better guest, but she never questioned where he had been or what he was up to, didn't worry about why so many people were always coming and going from the house. Didn't bother him about work in general, actually. Oswald couldn't think of anything particularly negative to say about Myla or the state of their relationship since she had moved in.

Except for the fact that, somehow, it just didn't feel like enough.

He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason – there was only a subtle, nagging feeling – but it was something he had the time to ponder while he waited for Myla outside the bakery. She had her coat on, ready to go, but had stopped to chat with someone. It appeared to be just pleasantries, but that thought did very little to ease Oswald's mind. After all, the first conversation between he and Myla had yielded a surname, her occupation along with the general area in which she worked, her school, that she was in night classes – all in relatively short span of time. While that air of obvious naivete had been part of her whole charm, the thing which drew him to her so fervently in the first place, but now it was troublesome how much information she would tell a stranger with so little prompting.

People knew now. Everyone knew about the pretty new addition to his home. It wouldn't be long at all before someone showed up at the bakery, to see what she knew, and tell her what she didn't. Or worse.

Oswald must had some manner of negative expression on his face, judging by Myla's concern upon entering the car.

"Are you okay?"

"Yes." He answered her a little too firmly, to the point where it wasn't at all convincing.

"Okay." She looked very skeptical, as expected. Myla set down her purse and strapped herself in, glancing at him every few minutes or so. He really did look sour about something, but it couldn't be about her. She just got here. No matter who was at fault for it, though, she still wanted to know how she could make that look go away.

"Have you ever considered working someplace else?" Oswald asked suddenly.

"Like a new city orrrr..." He seemed almost offended at the thought of leaving Gotham. Nope. Definitely wasn't talking about moving. "Ah – a new line of work. I mean, eventually. Someday. Yes." She floundered. Of course Myla knew that eventually she would have to give up her fun bakery gig in order to prove the degree she paid for was worth something, but she honestly didn't think about it very often.

"'Someday'?" How vague. Oswald knew plenty of places to put her, where he could have eyes and ears on her at his request. One phone call and she could start work at some cushy office job the next day. By weeks end, at the latest.

"After I graduate, I suppose." Myla shrugged. "For now, the bakery is fine."

"What do you plan to do after graduation?" She always avoided answering this question, but Oswald was though allowing her to.

Christ. For Myla this conversation was nearly like being stuck at a family barbeque – the kind where all your distant relatives come out of the woodwork to pester you about your plans to the future, as if it affects them at all. Although, her future could affect Oswald. Maybe.

"Work at a museum – teach?" She rubbed her temples, sighing. "I started off with preservation, but...it's a lot of science. I'd rather find something that feels more natural, ability-wise."

Museum. That was doable. Secretary work would have been quicker and easier to secure, but a museum job sounded nicer anyway. "What kind of museum?"

"Look, is there something wrong with my job?" Myla was started to feel cross with him over this sudden, unwelcome line of questioning. "Is it embarrassing you, somehow? What's the deal?"

"No, of course not." He answered simply. "I'm just...curious." As curious as the people in this city who were wondering what Myla was to him.

"Well, sorry. I like planning, but I'm not actually huge on planning ahead."

Oswald bit his tongue. "Yes, I suppose you aren't."

The car parked, and Myla was a little disarmed to see that they had pulled up to his club. She hadn't been there since she met Oswald.

"I just need to check inventory." He explained. "Also, I thought it best for you to change before we went to dinner." A bag was placed into her lap before he left the car. Myla followed him, greeted by many now-familiar faces that should have had her feeling more at ease, but it felt odd being there. Probably because the last time she had set foot in the club, the person that she loved and trusted most told her never to come back. Doing what she was told used to be kind of Myla's thing. Oswald gave her directions to a room upstairs that she could change in, then walked off to greet someone at the bar.

The place he gestured her to was a mashup between lounge and conference room – with a grouping of squishy, leather armchairs on one end, and a long, polished table with office chairs on the other. She went to the table, since it was furthest from the door, and she wanted the chance to be at least a little out of sight should someone walk in.

There was a dress inside the bag. Not anything she recognized out of her closet, meaning it had to be something Oswald had purchased. A brave show of confidence, considering her wardrobe contained a variety of sizes which all managed to fit her in the same way. The dress was pretty, at least. Classic cut, navy blue, and had covered buttons up the back that hid the zipper. Myla carefully laid the new dress out of the table before taking off her powdered-sugar dusted clothes from the day, folding them neatly, and placed them in the bag before pulling the new dress up over her hips.

Oswald entered the room – which is why she left the door unlocked in the first place, but the expectation didn't leave her any less startled. On his way across the room, she assumed that he would push the dress back down her shoulders, but instead he zipped it for her. Myla was relieved to find that it fit so well.

"Do you like the dress?" He asked.

"I do, thank you." Myla felt his hand slip around her waist and smiled. "Did you finish your business already?"

"Mhm." The dress looked fantastic, which made for an attractive victory, considering he had only vague estimations of her measurements to work with. He allowed his hands to glide over the smooth fabric for a moment before he pushed her onto the table.

This view was nice as well. The girl who had walked into his club some four months ago ad returned to the club as his. His to touch, his to to take. A tangible testament of victory. He pulled Myla's underwear down, rubbing his cock between her thighs. This was the dream, wasn't it? To have power, wealth, respect, an a pretty girl for everything else?

Myla's blushing face as he sank into her was quickly becoming a new favorite thing. At home, she had blankets and pillows to hide herself, but here, it was just her face against the polished glass of the table, where he could see every expression, and hear every sound. Oswald loved this position – it was incredibly dominant without being overly strenuous. If she attempted to tilt her hips away, it was easy to pull them back where he wanted. Sometimes he tugged on her hair a bit, because it was just so dark and long and always begging to be played with, and other times he would yank her torso up to his. The way she would arch her back when he did so felt incredible.

It was truly a shame that they couldn't properly complete their first semi-public romp. He certainly did not want to risk getting "fluids" on her brand new dress, so Oswald pulled out before he allowed himself to get too into it.

"We'll finish later, my love, I promise." He said gently, taking in her sweet, confused, embarrassed face when she turned around.

Myla nodded, and then pushed herself upright. She attempted to straightened up her appearance so she might not give off such an obvious look of someone who had just been bent over a table.

"You look fine." Oswald assured her. He found her especially beautiful with her face all flushed. Tonight, once he had her back in his bed, he hoped to see it again. Myla sat down to put her shoes back on. "I know the topic rather wore itself out in the car, but I'd like to know – would you like to make your career at the bakery?"

She had to think about it for a minute. Myla loved her bakery job – Jerry and Pam were like family to her, expressing interest in her becoming a full-on apprentice – however, she had already spent three years and thousands of dollars toward her degree. The bakery was enjoyable enough work, but when she considered it, her degree just felt more important. The obvious choice.

"Maybe...I can start looking for an internship." Myla said. Who knew if she would ever be in a position of not paying rent again? By all rights, this would be the prime time to save up in order to take care of the tedious, unpaid nonsense aspect of her future career. "I'll keep my job until I get one, of course, but I could start looking in the meantime."

"That sounds like a plan."

She snorted at the comment. Really though, Oswald didn't have a clue how competitive museum internships were. Myla wasn't terribly far into her degree, had no personal connections, made no efforts to charm or stand out to any of her teachers. Did any of them like her enough to give her a recommendation? What did she have to put on her application? This task was getting very daunting very fast. And that was before she started to considered how long it typically took to get into a program – six months at least, if she were lucky enough to be accepted upon her first attempt. Realistically, it was possible that she might not even be with Oswald then, and she wasn't positive that an internship would be doable without his support.

And this was a prime example of the reasons why Myla put off thoughts about the future. They just felt too large and open to reign in.

"No need for that attitude." He chided. "It won't hurt to get start, will it?"

Myla was fidgeting with her hair, trying to calm herself down from that unresolved lightning round of the Scenario Games. "No, it won't." The best she could do was tell herself to worry about it later. All that needed to be on her mind right now was where Oswald was taking her for the evening.

There was at least one thing she knew for certain it would involve.


	17. Chapter 17

As it turned out, there was actually tricky nature to obtaining an internship. For one, the process is absolutely not like it is for an average job. You cannot apply for an internship at your leisure, and theoretically be hired and begin working at any time. Museum deadlines on applications for summer internships were due before March. This meant that if Myla were to apply to a museum within the week, and Oswald was able to "vacate" a place for her in its program, Myla would be well aware that she couldn't possibly be considered next in line for their place. In fact, being her, Oswald was sure she wouldn't just refuse the job – but correct the museum on it's error as well.

It all came down to this – if he wanted to keep that closer eye on her before June, either he needed to place someone at her current job (which would have been simple, if she wasn't working for a mom and pop bakery), or get her a real position at a museum (which might appear a little overly convenient and suspicious). One of those, or attempt to find something else entirely, that she was more interested in over selling cake slices and learning about art. Something that he had actually been pushing for, via offering her work from both his and certain friend's more legitimate business, but she was very closed off to the idea.

Well, at least school wouldn't pose an issue. He already had someone lined up who would be slipped into her classes in the coming weeks.

Oswald jerked at the sound of Myla's alarm.

That alarm was possibly the only thing Myla had brought about that he found annoying enough to hate. In order to commute into town for her shift, she went to bed early, and woke early. It was not just annoying, but also a reminder of the limited time he had to devote to Myla without disrupting his own schedule. While there were many things he would consider cutting back on for her, sleep and business could not be counted among them.

Myla reached over him to shut off the alarm, and was going to get out of bed, until Oswald dragged her back. He rolled on top of her, pushing her nightgown up past her waist.

"Good morning."

Short as her stay in Oswald's house had been so far, Myla had been late to her job every single work day since she had arrived, but she never said anything about it to him. Instead, she would smile up at him brightly, the way he would ask her to, and run her fingers through his feather soft hair the way she knew Oswald liked, and he would hitch her legs up, pushing himself inside. She didn't appreciate the rough manner that he seemed to increasingly enjoy, but she didn't argue that either. It always felt fine after a minute or so anyway. Once it did, she would move with him, blushing at his dirty comments, sometimes adding a few of her own. It never failed make him hold her tighter and thrust harder. These last couple weeks had been quite the learning experience indeed.

Despite a fine effort to have him finish quickly, Myla was going to be late anyway. Again. At this rate, she knew she really ought to say something about it. Jerry and Pam liked her a lot, but she had definitely been late to work enough times to warrant getting in trouble. Not yet, though. She was going to be late enough without starting up a potential argument, so she rolled out of bed without so much as a displeased sigh, wiping herself off with an old shirt from her nightstand on the way to their closet.

Oswald had been buying her a lot of new outfits now. More than one would think was possible in the span of ten or so days, or maybe it just seemed impossible because it's so uncommon for men to buy their ladies' clothing. And maybe it was just because there were so many new additions handing up, but to Myla, it sure seemed like the clothes she had come here with were starting to disappear. Today, she found herself practically unable to recognize anything that hadn't recently been purchased.. It felt too strange to ask if he was getting rid of her old things, so she ignored that too. In any case, a wardrobe update isn't anything to show ungratefulness toward.

Though it did feel a bit ridiculous to dress up in outfits more fit to be worn out to a nice dinner or "social gathering" than what she would be doing, which was sitting behind a counter at a bakery, but there wasn't time to sort through this until she found suitable clothing. She set an outfit on the edge of the bed and gave Oswald a kiss before walking to the bathroom to brush her teeth and throw on five minutes of makeup.

"You're not picking me up today, right?" She called out the door.

"Not today, no." He answered back.

"Just making sure." Myla didn't like their incompatible schedules any more than he did – there had been a few days when she didn't see him at at. He typically tried to stick around for at least an hour after she came home from work, or sometimes pick her up after her shift so they could get a late lunch together before he went off to do...whatever it was exactly that Oswald did. This moving in with her boyfriend business was not turning out to be as fun as she anticipated. "Moving in together" tends to bring about an image of two people getting a new place together, decorating it together, and lot of lounging around, ordering takeout, and watching bad cable – moving in with Oswald was nothing like that. Myla had readily transported herself into his austerely furnished mansion fit for Oscar Wilde's ghost, and while she was very happy to be with Oswald, she was not happy about being alone and bored for long stretches at a time. It would be great if at the very least she didn't have to worry about going to bed so early, because he was actually home at night about half of the time.

Oswald observed her thoughtfully as she dressed, There was this almost graceful, dance-like quality to the way Myla carried out her routine that he loved to watch. When that was through, she went to the nightstand to get her phone before heading off, and he grabbed her hand before she could quite reach it.

His eyes quickly scanned over her finished appearance. "That color looks lovely on you."

"Thank you." It was another blue dress – cobalt in shade. She liked the way it made her look a little tanner, made her eyes appear a little greener, but she still wished it was something else. Myla's original style had contained a lot of color and patterns – florals, for instance – because of how they distracted from the stains she frequently acquired at work. These new clothes were mainly dark solids. Practical for many things, but not working at a bakery.

"Come home to me?"

He said the words with such earnest. How was she supposed to blame this man for her tardiness while he was being so sweet? Myla smiled and leaned down to kiss his forehead. "I will." She assured him. Reluctantly, she pulled her hand out from his and left the room.

The drive to work was uneventful as always, but accompanied by a persistent sinking feeling as she approached her old neighborhood, chest tightening when she passed her old apartment. She hadn't spoken to Jasmine since the night she confronted her about the contract. Liv called her at work a few days later, spouting some "family first" nonsense with a helping of "we're so disappointed". Myla only half-listened, because it was clear that no one was interested in her side of things. Why bother.

Pam was behind the counter when Myla arrived. Neither said anything, but her boss did cast her a rather withering stare as she clocked in and slipped on her rubber work shoes. Even though the first few hours in the shop were far from busy, Myla still had a commitment that she was failing, no matter how she tried to make up for it with tedious tasks that weren't in her job description.

A few hours later, Jen came in with coffee. Typically, Jen spent her breaks in Ohio with her family, but had to skip it that year, and had been spending the time bumming around the coffee shop instead, talking about how happy she was to have a break that didn't revolve around taking her Busia to five AM mass every morning. Myla was glad to have the company, and someone she could talk to about all the changes that had been happening.

Jen had be told, in the vaguest possible terms, that Jasmine had betrayed her. "Screwed" was the word Myla had used, because it sounds less serious but still get the awfulness across. Of course, Jen wasn't too surprised by it, and remained in a neither here nor there state on the issue. She was considerably more intrigued by her friend's sudden move-in with her boyfriend – mostly because Jen had yet to meet him and cast her opinion on the relationship – though at the same time she wasn't rushing to meet him. Honestly, it was almost like she wanted an excuse to stay salty.

Jen pulled up a chair to the counter. "So, school's starting soon. What's gonna happen with that?"

"What do you mean?"

Propping herself up on her elbows, Jen let out a sigh. "I mean, you're too late to switch your classes to days, you have your job, and you're living a strait hour away from school now."

Crap. Myla hadn't thought about all that – she never had to before. Her home, work and school had always within a few blocks of one another. It was easy. She would go home and take naps in-between work and classes because she could. Getting to work had quickly become almost more of a hassle than it was worth, add school into the mix, she would have hours of free time between classes and nothing to do. And then, she wouldn't get home until at least ten at night, and have to go strait to bed. Even less time with Oswald, making for an infallible recipe of Single by Summer.

"Let me guess – did think about this, did you?"

"No." Myla admitted. "No I did not."

"You see, this is what happens when you get trapped in the cesspool of lust. "Jen stared out dramatically, out the window and into the distance. "You...forget things."

"Yeah, okay." Myla didn't have time for theatrics, leaning over the counter while trying to think of some way to make both schedules work without stretching herself to thin. She was coming up blank.

"Myla, Myla, Myla. My dearest MK, I can't believe you've let your life become all about dick."

"Jen, please." Myla hissed.

"Right, sorry." Jen held her hands up. "No discussing vitamin D at work. I got it."

Myla grit her teeth. Of course Jen would bring up a serious issue, only to immediately belittle it due to a newfound sex life. Sure it was something that happening for her frequently now. Like, a lot. Like, daily. Sometimes multiple times daily – but that wasn't the point. Their time together was limited, so why not spend it being intimate? The sex wasn't all-consuming, it was just that a lot of things had slipped through the cracks over break. A lot had had changed, after all.

Maybe she could skip a semester. It would free up her nights, and if she acted quickly she could probably get some of her money back. Except...Myla didn't want to put off school. The thought of it felt like a cop-out. She only had classes a few nights a week, education is very important, blah, blah, blah. It was only five months. Oswald could power through this for her for five months.

"Kozak."

Myla jumped a little at the sound of her name. Jerry was in the doorway, looking very...something.

"Okay." Myla turned back to Jen. "Uh, let's meet up for lunch. My break's in an hour. Sushi?"

"Sounds good." Jen dragged the chair back to its table repeating the awful rubber-on-linoleum screech.

Myla waved goodbye and went up to Jerry. "What's up?"

"We need you in back."


	18. Chapter 18

Getting fired wasn't nearly as bad as Myla imagined it would be, but it sure did sting when they told her they had been looking at replacements all week. It stung worse when they said she didn't even have to finish her shift. After five years – five years – of never being late, taking extra shifts, accepting no overtime (because it would "help them out"), all it took was a handful of tardies to render her useless to them. All that time being excellent and helpful and kind were for nothing.

The next step was to tell Oswald, which she was dreading a little bit. Regardless of his previous encouragement toward her to drop everything for unpaid internships, Myla didn't want to feel like a mooch. Myla had always worked – from an age where it wasn't entirely legal for her to be. From the time she was small, her guardians had made her feel almost guilty over them having to care for her, and that wasn't a feeling she was keen on experiencing again.

Jen paid for lunch and sent Myla off to settle things, citing that it wouldn't be healthy for her to play her usual game of moping over hypotheticals until it was time to go home. It was for the best. Myla knew the longer she waited, the more she would find herself tempted to act as though everything were fine, and she still had a job to go to the next day. However, it didn't prevent her from driving as slowly as possible all the way, attempting to catch every red light on the way out of town. And it certainly didn't prevent her from imagining all the negative outcomes of the situation – just gave her less time to reflect on them. She needed to just come out with it and say she was fired. Rip that band aid off.

All the cars were there when she pulled up to the house, plus one extra she vaguely recognized. He was probably in a meeting. Welcoming the possibility to stall her unfortunate news, she slid her key in the door, and was greeted by wonderful silence once inside. She set her things by the door and went to the kitchen. There was always someone wasting time in there who could inform her where to find Oswald. Surprise, surprise, it was Butch today, sitting at the counter with the paper.

"Hey, Butch."

"Myla." Butch set down the paper. "You're home early, doll."

"Yeah." Myla sighed and leaned against the counter next to him. "Yeah..."

"Everything okay?"

She shrugged. "It is what it is. So...is Oz busy?"

"Not really, no." Butch answered. "You can interrupt it for sure. He's in the office."

"Thanks." She pushed herself off and went back into the hallway. What to say, what to say. Just say you got canned, she told herself. Don't make it complicated. He only freaks out when you freak out. Myla paused when she reached the door, taking a deep breath before opening it. Oswald was seated behind his desk, another man in front of him. Papers were everywhere. He was busy. She should have waited.

But Oswald noticed her before she could slip back out. He smiled at her and got up from his chair. "You're home."

"I am." She answered, still standing awkwardly in the doorway.

"We'll come on. Come in." He beckoned her forward. "There's someone here I've wanted you to meet." The man in front of the desk turned to greet her. "This is my very good friend, Edward Nygma. He also does some work for me from time to time. Edward, the lovely Myla Kozak."

Myla froze up, more than a little stunned to see someone she recognized in this house. And not just any old someone, either. It was Dad Jokes. Her freshman year crush. The man she almost lost her virginity to on a table.

Seeing him again brought about the strangest feelings – like experiencing a falling dream, but also being aware that you're was dreaming. There are no negative consequences (or, you know, death) when you are only dreaming. Myla figured as long as she could maintain the sense of "no consequences", she could play this off. "I can't believe you still have such a terrible-paying day job."

Oswald's smile vanished. That wasn't very polite of her at all.

"Ha." Edward half smiled, pushing up his glasses. "How have you been, Myla?"

He said her name weird, too. What was going on?

"Better, since all my required sciences are out of the way. You?"

"Well, clearly you can see that my side gigs have leveled up." Edward crossed his arms over his chest, making the same efforts to play things off like she was doing. "Are you still looking to be a conservatory?"

Oswald knew he was being a little ridiculous, but Edward and Myla's small talk was making him grossly uncomfortable.

"I'm actually leaning more toward research."

How did they know each other? He had spend hours upon hours combing through Myla's past, looking into family, friends, and acquaintances. He knew the name of the mailman who had delivered to her old apartment building, but hadn't the slightest idea where the hell she could possibly know Edward from. "Myla, did you need something?"

"Oh, right." Myla went back to looking sheepish. "I just...need to talk to you about something."

"Why don't you go upstairs, and I'll be there in a minute." Oswald watched her keenly as she waved goodbye and gave a "good to see you again" to Edward before leaving.

"So, how do you know Myla?"

"I tutored her a few years back." Edward said simply, returning back to the papers on the desk. "She's a...nice girl." Oz had definitely hit the jackpot of naive, impressionable college girls, just as he had bragged.

"She is." Oswald said curtly as he crossed the room.

"I'm sensing some hostility here." Edward sighed. "I'll remind you that three years ago, you didn't know me, or her. Back then, she was a girl failing advanced bio chemistry, and I was just a guy who needed to make rent."

Oswald still wasn't convinced.

"What do you want me to say, Ozzie?" "You're acting like I hid something from you, when you're the one who never gave me a name. For four months, it's been 'this girl you met', 'the girl you're fucking' -"

Oswald didn't have time to register the strange bitterness of his friend's tone, because he suddenly took notice of the time. "The girl who's home three hours early."

"What, is that bad?"

He couldn't be sure. "She's usually so...routine-oriented." Oswald felt a little nervous now. Myla was like a clock – a reliable, steadfast reminder – she could always be counted on to perform the same tasks during the same times, which included when she came home. He noticed that even before she moved in, when she offered a half-day, she would find some other way to pass the afternoon until it was her usual time to go home or to class. Today she was here early, and she did look kind of upset. And she wanted to speak to him alone. While he doubted it was anything as serious as say, leaving him, it still didn't set a very welcoming tone.

Edward again turned back to the desk. "You should probably see what she wants from you."

Oswald pursed his lips in annoyance toward Edward, but did leave the room as suggested. He doubted this would turn out to be anything, as Myla always got worked up over relatively minor inconveniences. It was hard to find that aspect annoying, though, as it was that darling trait which had let her to him. Without even a moment of pause, he entered their bedroom to find Myla sitting on the edge of the bed. She stared at the floor, refusing to meet his gaze when he walked in the room. Well, this had the opportunity to be unpleasant after all. Maybe someone died.

"So," Oswald shut the door gently behind him. "is everything alright?"

"I was fired." She finally mumbled, after a lengthy, panic-inducing silence.

Oswald nearly laughed, relief flooding through him so hard his fingertips tingled. "Not to belittle the situation, but I was prepared for much worse news."

"I know, I'm sorry." Despite her own chiding, Myla had still managed to act entirely too over-dramatic for the situation. "It's just...I've always had a job." Lied about her age to get a work permit when she was twelve, babysat, walked dogs. Convenience stores, retail, a stint at library, and five years at the bakery. An invertible lifetime worth of references and experience by drinking age.

"Why did they fire you?"

"I've been coming in late the last few weeks." Myla almost felt petty enough to say that it was his fault, but thought better of it.

"Well," Oswald paused for a moment, trying to approach the situation tactfully and without letting on how pleased he was by this news, "you did want to look for other work."

True enough. Begging teachers to write up references for internships was practically a full time job.

"Don't be sad." His hands slid up her arms to rest on her shoulders. "This is for the best – you'll see." Oswald let out a short sigh and kissed her forehead. "Unfortunately, it's almost time for me to go – but I'll move some things around tomorrow, and we could spend the day together, for once. How does that sound?"

"Good." Myla said meekly, attempting a smile. It sounded very good, actually. Oswald stood back up, leaving her to her thoughts, which he hoped would now include a few more positive ones of him. He walked confidently back to his study, where Edward still waited. The papers had since been cleared away, meaning his work was finished.

"So, what was that all about?" "No trouble in paradise, I trust."

"No, actually a small issue of mine has just been resolved." Oswald was unable to hide how pleased he was by this tun of events. "Myla was fired today."

"You got her fired?" Edward asked, incredulous.

"No, no...Well, I suppose I am partially responsible." Oswald was willing to admit that much. "It wasn't a true effort."

"Hm." unsurprisingly, Edward's previous hint of disgust at Oswald still lingered. "I suppose that works out very well for her anyway, having a rich boyfriend to take care of her and all."

Oswald accepted the snide comment with open arms. That was, after all, exactly what he had wanted.


	19. Chapter 19

Even without the alarm, Myla's eyes fluttered open the second it would have gone off. Waking early was going to be a tough habit to break.

Outside was still pitch, the house very still, with Oswald sound asleep next to her, mumbling something she couldn't quite make out. He still looked peaceful, though, as most people tend to appear while they're asleep, but it felt almost a significant thing for Myla to witness. Oswald was a busy man, and while he chose not to speak of it around her, she knew his mind was constantly veering toward business. Always pensive, always planning, always focused at all times.

Myla reached out to rest her hand on his cheek, to which he lazily responded by turning his head to kiss her palm, the small action sending a warm rush of affection throughout her body. This wasn't a terrible way for her to start her first day of unemployment at all, but she couldn't stay in bed for much longer. Laying down when she wasn't tired would give her a headache. She needed to find something to occupy herself with until he woke up. As quietly as she could manage, Myla rolled out of bed and left the room.

Oswald was already awake, but needed at least a few minutes to himself to make a few calls, make sure the cogs were working. He would hate to be called away and the day he had promised Myla. When everything came back well and accounted for, he set the phone back on the nightstand and got out of bed, hesitating on whether to put on the outfit he had laid out the night before. Myla sometimes liked to wander the house in her pajamas, and she would probably want to shower before they left for town.

He didn't have to stay wondering for very long before Myla returned, almost as if she had sensed that he was up and about.

"Morning." She beamed at him, crossing the room with a tray full of muffins and tea. Myla could bake excellent muffins, and did so often – just about every day since she had moved in. There was a container of plain batter she kept in the fridge, so there was always a different, often interesting flavor to the dozen or so muffins on the counter each morning that no one in the house could resist. Oswald basically inhaled the one Myla offered him, tasting orange and cinnamon, plus another spice that he couldn't name.

"Good?" She asked.

"Perfect, as always. Thank you, my love." He took a sip from the mug of tea she had brought up with the food (she had since learned of his dislike for coffee). "Have you thought about how you would like to spend the day?"

"We can hang around for a while, if you want. Watch some tv or something." Oswald was always in suits, making calls and doing business things, so Myla wanted to relish the sight of him in bedhead and pj's in a casual setting for as long as he would allow it. "Anything in particular you wanted to do?"

Oswald set down the tea. "I made us a dinner reservation," His hands went up to undo her top, the large buttons and silky fabric made it easy work. He watch Myla bit her lip when his thumb brushed over her nipple, "but we have quite a bit of time to waste until then." A kiss was all the prompting Myla needed to slip her hand past the waistband of his boxers. Oswald let out a groan against her lips when her soft hand wrapped around his cock. Her natural affinity to please other had made Myla's an exceptionally easy study, and reluctant to refuse. To have an entire day in which he could take advantage of that.

* * *

Myla stepped out of the shower to find that Oswald had already set out clothes for her. While she was not a child who needed to be told how to dress, it wasn't like she could be too annoyed over it. Mostly because she was far too worn out to be annoyed. The only thing motivating her to go out tonight was that staying home would ensure that they would have sex again. Not that the sex was bad, but today it had been especially...acrobatic. And exhausting. And came with a very important lesson: if Oswald wanted something badly enough, he found a way to make it happen.

With that in mind, she dressed in the Oswald-approved attire and sat down to do her makeup, being mindful of it, as he made it seem like he had something exceptionally nicer planned for them. He said as much when she finished and came downstairs, while helping her into her coat.

He held her hand in the car, and while the drive was silent, Myla felt incredibly content with it. She thought to herself that she had never felt more at ease simply sitting beside him.

After a while, Myla began to recognize the neighborhood they were in. There were three brothers she used to babysit two streets over, and the street they were on housed a candy shop she would walk them over to – providing they had finished their homework and kept the roughhousing to a minimum. Those boys were all teenagers now, she hadn't seen them in years, but the memory still provided her with an idea.

"Gabriel – pull over, please."

"Mr. Cobblepot?" Gabriel asked, wanting to confirm that pulling over was a universal agreement.

Oswald nodded, though confused by Myla's sudden request as well. "Go ahead."

She paused, briefly, when they got to the curb. "Um, be right back." Offering no other explanation, Myla left the car, disappearing into a cozy-looking storefront a few shops down. While she made her purchase, Oswald stepped out to wait for her, instructing Gabriel to leave for the restaurant. It was only about half a block away, and there was still a bit of time to waste before their reservation. He decided a short walk through the snow would be nice. Myla joined him back outside, holding what appeared to be a small hatbox.

"Sorry, this place wasn't going to be open after dinner." Myla shot him her best warm, sunshine smile, still holding onto the box like a treasure.

"It's alright." Oswald smiled in return. "What have you got there?"

"Right, right." She opened the box, revealing several dozen candies, wrapped in colored wax paper. "These, are the best apple cider caramels in the city. They're my favorite, and I haven't had them in years." Myla kept up her smile while she unwrapped a caramel from the box. "Now, close your eyes."

"Hm?"

"Things just taste better with your eyes closed." Myla said matter-of-factly, grinning. "Now, come on."

Oswald was going to mention that he was not particularly fond of sweets, but closed his eyes and accepted the candy anyway. "I can see how this was such an important stop."

"M-hm." She linked her arms with his, as he led them down the street. Snow was starting to fall, in fat flakes that settled onto the existing snow on the sides of buildings and roads. Myla didn't always appreciate the cold, but she loved the snow. It made the city look so clean and bright. Some flurries latched themselves onto Oswald's hair, which was an unexpectedly adorable look. It made her heart race to a point where she felt she could burst from all she was feeling.

The last time Myla thought to tell someone she loved him had ended quite catastrophically some minutes later – as if the words had cursed their own intentions. This time, she was waiting for Oswald to say them. It was all she wanted, but he wasn't. Perhaps there hadn't been a moment romantic or opportune enough for it – Oswald was one for flair, after all. Myla didn't care about flair, though, she just wanted to hear those three words from the man with snowflakes in his hair.

Instead he drew up his umbrella. Oswald went to pull her closer, so they might both be adequately shielded, but was caught off guard when she pulled him down by his collar, bestowing a kiss a hundred times more passionate than she had offered up before.

"I love you, you know." He voice was so soft, as though they were in a very crowded room, and she wanted to be sure that the words would belong to only him.

It was a bit overly saccharine – both the intensified taste of confection on her tongue, and the moment itself – but Oswald took it in stride. Her face, resting warm against his hand, was so wonderfully earnest. Even if this wasn't the sort of moment he envisioned, he could not bring himself to disappoint Myla while she was making such a face at him. "I love you too." He murmured softly, watching her face light up with a beautiful brightness that put the lovely lights around them to shame.

Once the moment settled, Oswald again offered his arm to her, and they resumed their walk to the restaurant.

Halfway down the block, his elation was suddenly replaced with a very uneasy feeling. Glancing over his shoulder, he was able to notice the man walking a short distance behind them. The man quickly averted his stare to the sidewalk. Too quickly, the way a guilty person does when they're being caught. Oswald didn't like feeling like he was being followed – such a feeling had grown from annoyance to a very legitimate fear over the past couple years – a fear that was heightened by the fact that he was currently a touch vulnerable. He had sent Gabe to wait ahead of them, Butch and Victor and whomever else he usually kept nearby for protection were off attending to other details for the time being. Perhaps it was sheer paranoia, but in his current state, he couldn't help but wonder if the stranger behind them might have some malignant intention. Oswald abruptly paused, pulling Myla to the side, waiting for the man to catch up with them. As expected, the man chose not to pass.

"Can we help you, sir?" He asked stiffly.

"Not from you." He hardly spared Oswald a glance, before turning to Myla. "Where are your manners, little girl? Don't you have any help to offer me?" As one could could imagine, the questions made her extremely uncomfortable.

"She's not interested." Oswald suppressed the urge to vomit in order to answer for her. "I would ask that you continue on your way – perhaps on the other side of the street?"

The man ignored him, sidestepping Oswald to try and get Myla's attention again. "Come on, little girl. Ditch the sugar daddy and I'll show you what it's like to be with a real man."

Oswald balked at his implication. "You think her company is being bought?"

"All I'm saying is a cute pieces like her usually isn't hanging around with your type for free."

"Myla." His voice rang out sharply. "Keep walking. Find the car. Get in it."

She had never seen such an expression on his face before, and it worried her. Frightened her, even."Oz, let's just go." Myla said shakily.

"The car, Myla." Oswald hissed. "Wait for me there."

Myla hesitated, but another look at that expression convinced her that it was best that she left. Pulling her coat tightly around her, she began to walk away, fighting the urge to beg Oswald to drop it and come with her. The scene she was leaving was dramatic enough.

Oswald did not hold back his disdain for the way the man licked his lips, his eyes locked on Myla.

"You just made a big mistake, pal."

"Oh, did I?" He couldn't fight the way he liked to toy with people either, like a child playing with his food, even though he considered himself far from in that sort of mood.

"Most definitely. I'm about five steps from knocking your ass across the block, and you sent that little girl away all on her lonesome."

Now, Oswald was almost tempted to put up an act – claim he hadn't thought things through, perhaps beg a little – but it wasn't worth the effort.

Gun or knife? Gun was quicker, more efficient. but Myla would surely hear it. She would ask questions.

The man inhaled slowly. "Gotta love the classy girls. The ones in dresses, rain or shine, am I right?" His eyes glazed over, imagining the hours he thought were in store for him. "She feels like heaven, don't she? I bet she does."

Oswald noticeably flinched, fingers enclosing the cold steel of his favorite knife a bit too hard. "Are we supposed to be bantering? There was talk of you kicking my ass, so I'm a little confused right now."

"I'm sorry, am I making you uncomfortable, friend?" He grinned, taking one, two steps toward Oswald. Just a little closer. "Does it make you angry to know I'm about to be balls deep in your pretty little girlfriend?"

He was too big to charge – even in the short distance between them. Oswald needed to wait, control himself for just a minute, but it was a difficult endeavor, to suffer through talk of the various degradations the stranger had in mind for his Myla. But he still waited. He waited, until the second the man was close enough for Oswald to smell his rotten breath, and then

The knife whooshed audibly through the air, puncturing the man's throat with such force that, had the blade been half an inch longer, might have driven its way clear through

"Well, this was a fun chat – really, it was." Oswald growled through bared teeth while the man stared at him with wide, shocked eyes, gurgling as blood filled his airway. "Unfortunately, I have a pretty little girlfriend I should be getting back to." He began withdrawing the knife slowly, so as not to get any of this man's filth on him. For a minute, he hovered over the body, debating whether he should at least drag the thing into an alley. Or had he wasted enough time on this garbage already? Definitely, yes. Someone else could be called to deal with this in a jiffy.

The soft click of heels on the sidewalk brought him back into the present, and Oswald quickly pocketed the knife, turning halfway. Myla had the sense to stop at a decent distance. "I told you to wait in the car." He said coldly.

"Sorry, but I was so worried." It didn't take very long for her to fully take notice of the corpse behind him, and Oswald watched with newfound anxiety as her concerned face became filled with confusion and mild horror. "Is...he okay?"

"He's fine." Oswald lied, physically turning Myla around, away from all evidence of what he had just done. "Hurry now, love, we're going to be late."


	20. Chapter 20

The man was dead. Myla knew he was. The sky was blue, her eyes were green, and a man lay dead on the sidewalk half a block away from where she sat with that man's murderer.

And Oswald was completely unaffected. Calm. Enjoying dinner, while her thoughts kept getting yanked back to the image of the slumped figure in the snow. Myla didn't approach the subject of it – she knew better. What was the point of it anyway, when she felt so sure of the answer?

The ride home was as silent as the drive into town had been, except the silence wasn't a comfortable one anymore. Myla was not at all content with it, and she gripped onto her hatbox of caramels in order to avoid holding his hand. What would she do once they got home? Was she supposed to...leave? That certainly seemed the thing to do, when you suspect your lover of murder.

But she had always suspected him of just that, hadn't she? Myla had had never really banished the accusations of Oswald being some sort of bloodthirsty psychopath. On some level of unconscious thought, she felt like something would happen to prove truth to the claims. It was inevitable. In spite of everything, she had expected this. Almost in the way you might prepare yourself for a family barbeque, knowing things will get racist and terrible a few hours in. You pump yourself up to go by convincing yourself that it won't happen this time, and when it does, you pretend it doesn't bother you nearly as much as it does. And really, it felt like she was taking the situation much better than she should have. Maybe it was just the shock. Shock when faced with a bigoted comment for which you are not comfortable arguing was bound to be different from the shock when faced with a dead body.

Still, taking something well does not guarantee the ability to act "fine". You can act like things are fine after your boyfriend forgets an important event or says something callous – you cannot act fine when you're positive your boyfriend just killed someone. And likely dozens of others, as Myla now realized. There's a line between picking your battles and being willfully ignorant.

They arrive home in a time which felt mysteriously fast. Much too fast to take stock in how she felt and what she should do. Obviously, the best option would be to leave, but was it safe to leave? It didn't seem safe to leave.

In any case, Myla's need for validation in her choices outweighed the instinct for safety – if she wasn't going to stay and act fine, she wanted to hear Oswald admit what he did. However, she was not used to confrontation. What was she supposed to if he denied it? Or started a fight? After considering the night's events, a fight with Oswald did not seem like a scenario with a pleasant outcome.

Maybe she could hold out until school started. Leave for class, and then simply never come back. It wasn't a great plan, but it might be good enough. Until he came for her, anyway. He would definitely come for her.

Fuck. Myla despised that word, but it fit so well in this context, as she didn't know what the fuck she was supposed to do, where the fuck she was supposed to go, and what the fuck she was supposed to tell anyone.

Also, when the fuck did she get inside? She didn't remember anything from her journey from the car to the bedroom, but here she was. Alone, thankfully, but those sort of gaps in memory while she was lost in thought had never bothered Myla more than at this moment. Picking up some momentum, she left the room and went about looking for Oswald, although Myla quickly found herself losing resolve with each empty room she encountered, until she came upon the section of the house she hadn't explored before. This was the place all those strange people visiting went to – the room that Oswald had politely asked her to keep away while they conducted "business meetings". She now thought it foolish how had never once considered it suspicious for him to not want her around while he conducted business, even though she supposed there had never found it to be a compelling reason for her to scope it out before. In any case, it felt obvious that this was where she would find him, and so she let herself in.

The scene Myla walked into was laughably dramatic – candles everywhere, the fireplace lit behind him, and the general way Oswald made himself look so very serious sitting there, as he traced the lip of a wineglass with his finger.

"I supposed you're here to discuss the dead man."

Well, it was humorous for a moment there, at least. Myla was a little stunned by his casual approach to such serious subject matter, catching her so off guard for a moment she could scarcely remember the reason why she had come in the first place.

"Would you please sit, darling." Oswald gestured to the open seat to his side. Slowly, stiffly, she approached the table, as sat down as he requested.

He ceased the idle play with the wineglass, diverting his full attention to Myla, and that wide, childlike gaze of hers, peering strait into him. "Do you know what out most basic instinct is, Myla, as humans?"

Oswald stared at her expectantly, until she finally shook her head. It didn't feel right to offer up any answer at this point. Not until she had a better grasp on what was going to happen.

"It's self-preservation, dear. A natural drive which keeps us fighting to breathe and thrive no matter the cost. Now, most people believe they can override this instinct – everyone thinks they have what it takes to die or suffer to protect someone else - but the truth is that very few people have that truly candor quality. Human nature is ingrained with selfishness, that is undeniable." He said all of this very matter of factly, but the way he spoke and smiled at her (an abrupt change from the somber attitude he had when the conversation began) during the exchange felt anything but normal. It was knowing, building; the expression and tone of someone who knew your greatest secret and couldn't wait to out you. Myla didn't like it at all.

He leaned over the table, hands clasped in front of him. "Do you have any idea what sort of things that man said to me once you left?"

She shook her head again.

"You don't want me to repeat them. Suffice it to say, the things he had in mind for you were extremely unpleasant."

He paused for a minute to drain the rest of the wine from his glass.

"I think it's time to, as they say, put all our cards on the table." Oswald half-smiled, reaching a hand down and into his pocket. He withdrew the knife, still bloody from its earlier use, and placed it gently in front of her.

Never the girl with the quick, witty responses, Myla felt it uncharacteristic, to say the least, when the only response she could think of was "that's quite a hand". Not that she said that either. No, she just stared at the knife, horrified but silent.

Oswald had to choose his words very carefully now. Make this about Myla – her safety and well being and what have you, rather than his extensive sins of pride and bloodlust. At the moment, this was still salvageable.

He put his hand over hers, while she continued to stare down blankly at his knife. "Most people are not as exceptional as they claim to be. Myla, I truly don't think you understand how many of them are all but completely incapable of protecting the ones the love in ways they need to...but I am. I have proven myself an exception."

The reasoning was absolute madness, deep down she knew it was, but on a different level – the one where she desperately wanted to avoid the fact that she had given everything she had to a murderous sociopath – it made complete sense. Everyone knows that it's acceptable to use force (even deadly force) against those who seek to cause harm to you and yours. She very nearly bought it. It would have been so easy to pretend like this had and would only ever happen just this once, and only because he felt her life was at risk. It would have taken almost nothing at all to convince herself of this and move on, simple-minded and naive as ever, if she hadn't opened her mouth.

That something which came bubbling up from her throat and out of her mouth before she could stop it, before she could push it down, and start convincing herself that everything was going to be alright.

"You've done this before." It wasn't a question. All those warnings hadn't been rumors or misunderstandings – she just hadn't wanted to admit that someone who had been so wonderful to her was only pretending to be good.

He looked almost apologetic. Whether it was due to some remorse over his past, or he was sorry that she had to bring this up, Myla couldn't tell.

"I have." He tried, but there was no point in hiding it now. This had been destined to come out sooner or later, although he had rather hoped for more time. Oswald could have been more cruel about it, candidly listing the deaths at his hands, which ranged from career advancement, to things as simple as convenience, and mistaken hastiness during a few admittedly childish moments of intense rage. No, going much further would only prove disastrous and problematic for the both of them.

"I believe it's only fair for you to know now," he continued, "even if you don't quite understand why. I've had to make some dark and questionable choices to get to where I am today."

That was almost funny, hearing him imply that murder – several murders, really – were but simple, abet unfortunate mistakes. As if he thought such things were common, day-to-day choices average people had to make. Perhaps he did.

"Is there anything else you would like to talk about?"

Myla finally reverted her stare back up to him. He looked so pleased, it was sickening. "No."

"Then perhaps it's time to you to go to bed." Oswald gave her hand a squeeze before helping her up from her seat and escorting her to the door. "I'll see you in the morning." Myla slid her hand out of his and walked out into the hallway, noticing Oswald's glance toward the corner before he shut the door behind her.

"Strange that she never noticed you standing there."

"I can't believe you had the balls to tell her all that." Butch said incredulously. "You actually admitted you killed, and then tried to sugarcoat it."

"It couldn't be helped." Oswald stated firmly.

Butch stepped a bit further into the room. "I'm pretty sure she would have bought a lie. Hell, I think anything would have been better that all that – like telling her you have an evil twin."

Oswald took his seat again, running through their conversation, looking for holes. "You know how things never quite fit back in the box after you unpack it?"

"Um, sure."

"There was no way to get things back to where they were with Myla." He blew it – plain and simple. Oswald had recklessly taken advantage of all the free passes Myla provided, and it was time to own up. "I slipped up pretty badly tonight. It wasn't something I could excuse away."

Butch looked skeptical. "So you really don't think she's upstairs right now, packing her shit up to go?"

"No. Right now I'd say she's probably wondering if I would kill her if she left me."

"And that's...good?"

"Well, I wouldn't call it ideal, no – but it's still preferable." Oswald leaned back in his chair. "It will allow me to prove that I'm not the biggest threat to her." It was all of matter of redirecting her fear.

Gotham was full of monsters like him, after all.


	21. Chapter 21

The first time Myla had felt anything so righteous as true anger was when she discovered the contract. No, that was just disbelief – the anger came out when Jasmine tried to cover her ass for it. Myla had always been a good person. A good, forgiving, understanding, and honest person. Now, she couldn't decide if she was more angry and resentful of Oswald, or herself. For a brief moment, she settled for pity. It was silly and selfish, but hadn't she earned the right to be a little selfish? Then she would think about leaving, until the embarrassment came creeping up over her as she remembered the warnings and advice received that could have prevented this entirely.

She had the money to leave. That's what Myla kept telling herself. She had the means to walk out the door, get an apartment, find another job, and move on with her life – and she couldn't understand how it was so hard to take that leap.

Maybe it had something to do with the way Oswald acted – like everything was more or less the same. Like she was only one affected by the dramatic shift their relationship had suffered, and that was confusing, in a way. It almost made Myla doubt herself. Then, past the confusion, there was always the fear. The trait of self-preservation which apparently allowed Oswald to kill with such little remorse had for her resulted in a sudden panic, convinced that doing anything now required his permission.

Now that she thought about it, that in itself fully explained why she felt unable to leave, despite the means to do so.

Oswald hadn't been explicitly setting rules, but there was still was this constant, sharp fear that anything might make him violent now. At first, Myla did try to tell herself that the thought was rather ridiculous, until she remembered that Oswald was no longer her odd duck of a boyfriend, but someone who did kill – and ordered killings – quite often. It was not at all ridiculous to be wary of such a person, no matter who they are to you.

As time ticked down to the first class of the semester, she figured she really ought to find some way to ask if attending was an option, as she wasn't even entirely sure if leaving the house was an option anymore. Myla finally got out of bed and walked down to the conference room. She had since been told that it was always the place to find him before she moved in, and had become so again now that he wasn't bothering to hide much from her anymore. The room itself was a living power trip, and Oswald rather enjoyed her presence within it now, like a boy showing off to his parents.

Myla hated the room, but she entered it anyway, finding Oswald alone in his dumb chair, in front of that ridiculous fireplace. She sat in the open seat to his left and stared at the table. After a minute or so of silence, he reached over to grab her hand. It took a lot from her not to recoil away from his touch.

"How did you sleep, love?"

"Fine, thank you." The adrenaline buildup began, as she started working herself for a way to nonchalantly bring up school.

"Darling, I know you're here for a reason – is there something you need?" He pressed.

Always the intuitive one, this man. "Well," she still hesitated, "I have class in an hour."

"Yes, I know."

Of course he knew. He just knew everything, didn't he? "It gets out at nine, so I'll be home around ten or so."

"You will." He said. "Butch is going with you."

Myla frowned. "Why Butch?" The bigger question was why she needed to be chauffeured to class, but "why Butch?" was a start.

"You'll have someone else tomorrow." Oswald explained calmly. "Someone who will no doubt blend in with your class a little better, but, unfortunately, she became busy. That's why Butch is taking you."

That didn't answer anything. "Is there a reason I need anyone with me at all?"

"Call it a...safety precaution." Oswald smiled reassuringly. "They won't be any bother to you, I promise."

Safety. Right. More like constant surveillance.

"We'll talk more later, darling. You should be getting to class."

Myla bit her tongue, effectively preventing any more questions from coming out, and left the room. Of course she didn't like having to leave the conversation like that, what the vague implications and all – not to mention the fact that he had arranged to have her followed without any consultation, or so much as a heads up. Ah well, there would be no bringing that up later. Or maybe there was, since he did like to talk.

All he ever did was talk at her now. With his big secret out, he wasn't shy about sharing details of crime and the body count that existed under this roof. Oswald told her all these things as if they were bedtime stories.

Like the tales of Butch Gilzean, and his illustrious body of work torturing and killing traitors and snitches in a sanctioned "slaughterhouse" on the docks. Very interesting stuff, that was. Endless fun. Who wouldn't want to spend time alone with him after that? Not Myla, that was for sure, but she got in the car with him anyway, leaning against the door with her fingers on the handle for the duration of the ride to the university. She leapt from the car and started walking to class the second they parked. Surely he would know where to find her, and in any case she doubted she was moving fast enough to lose him amongst the small groupings of cold, unhappy-looking students.

Thankfully, Myla didn't have any friends taking this particular class, which suited her just fine, as she still needed to master the art of acting as though things were great when they were, in fact, not. It was ideal because as of now, she felt like she would cry if someone asked her how break went. Not only is crying in public embarrassing, but she was also being watched, which added some pressure. She was going to have to make do with a short time span, because she had a class with Jen and Riley on Wednesday, and Myla clearly had no confidence to back up the illusion that everything was well. It was possible that she could still switch to day classes – the school would always complied when someone pushed hard enough. She would see Oswald less, and have more time to "practice" acting fine. Neither of those things could be avoided forever, though.

The professor looked at her strangely when she entered the classroom, tossing the work from break onto his desk. Maybe it was because she was dressed for an upscale cocktail party. Maybe she had a palpable aura of shame and hopelessness surrounding her now. In any case, Myla ignore it and took a seat, pulling out a binder from her bag. Butch arrived a minute or two later, whispering something she assumed was quite violent to the teacher when he was asked to leave, judging by the way the professor needed a moment to compose himself afterward. It was something of a relief when Butch chose to sit half a dozen rows behind her. At least she would be watched from a comfortable distance, rather than having Oswald's spy breathing down her neck during classes. Even if all Myla did was stare at the whiteboard the whole time. That was all she did that night – the lecture would have more success on a brick wall than it did her. For ninety minutes, she didn't didn't absorb anything, didn't write a single letter of notes, and it wasn't until Butch tapped her on the shoulder that she realized class had ended. A perfect beginning to the semester – she didn't even know if there was homework.

Whatever. It probably didn't matter anyway.

Myla took her time in packing her things back up, wondering which one of them would get in the most trouble should she arrive home late. Would it be worth it to find out? Slinging her bag over her shoulder, Myla stalked out the room, with Butch trailing behind.

"Fun class." Butch noted when he caught up with her.

Myla shrugged, and didn't answer.

"No homework. That's gotta be neat."

Not neat, but it was useful information. Saved her an awkward phone call to an acquaintance. "You don't have to talk to me, you know." She told him stiffly. "I'm sure it isn't required of you."

"It's not." He agreed. "Just wanted to be friendly."

After a few minutes of silence in the car, Myla had a question, deciding she wouldn't have the patience for Oswald's embellished, drawn-out answers.

"Has he always had me followed, or it it just now?"

Butch shot her a guilty glance, telling her enough of the subject before he even answered. "Gabe was sent to tail you for a while after Oswald met you – to get some general info. Just for a week or two, I think. There wasn't much of a reason to follow you, if I'm being honest."

Was she really that boring? "Why's that?"

"You were clearly unaffiliated. We actually drew more attention the longer we kept poking around – the wrong people started looking at you too. Oswald decided ignoring you would make you look useless again."

Myla made a face at the suggestion that she was useless. "At do you mean other people were looking at me? Looking at me for what?"

"I mean, enemies thought you could be a weakness."

"So what, they would kidnap me or something if I were?" Honestly who would bother?

"Oh, absolutely." Butch said. "You're looking especially good to them right now. Everyone knows who you are: Penguin's live-in squeeze. A girl with access to his private life, potentially his business, plus, you know men are always telling their women more than they mean to."

"Please, I don't know anything." She said starkly. The idea that she held any sort of power in Oswald's life was laughable.

Butch chuckled. "Sure you don't. Look honey, even if you didn't, I could still name a dozen guys who would pick you up and wreck your world just for the fun of it. For them, pissing Oswald off would just be a side perk."

Myla eyed him warily. "So this is just how it has to be now, then? Always presumed to be in some kind of danger?"

"Gotham was hardly safe for you before, but it sure as hell ain't now, doll."

Safe. Myla would rather have her thin facade of normal back over safe. The ignorance, even, over safe. It didn't seem a worthwhile tradeoff to be this aware of the true, violent nature of Gotham – even less so when Myla reminded herself that she was still wading into the shallow end. Or perhaps she was not even in the pool at all, but rather staring into while Oswald waited, with arms outstretched, to drag her in. What if she couldn't pull herself out? Stuck in this rotten place, forever, with him? Myla got a terrible feeling that he might never tire of her, never find some other foolish person to sink his hooks into.

There had to be some way to make him disinterested enough to leave. There were more drastic options to force him away, even if they were very, very ill-advised upon second thought. She would perform any number of ill advised acts if it meant an out, though.

And once she got it, maybe she would leave this place and never look back.


	22. Chapter 22

Myla knew it was him. She could tell by the sound of this breathing, the familiar weight on top of her.

"Hey." She mumbled sleepily. What time was it? Was it day, or was this his way of waking her up for school? Myla could never tell through the heavy curtains hanging off every window in this awful house. There was a light on across the room, illuminating the sitting area, she noticed, but it wasn't exactly helpful in her quest to know the time of day.

Oswald gently shushed her before kissing her neck, his hand cupping her cheek. Lately, she had been thinking too much about what those hands had done, and the gentleness he showed her in intimate moments like these felt like the worst kind of lie.

"What time is it?" Myla asked, her voice getting a little clearer. She stretched out a little bit, blatantly ignoring the way Oswald was touching her. Obviously, she was no longer fond of this activity, and in the last week or so she had noticed that if she didn't respond to him the way he liked, he would get annoyed and leave. Maybe he caught on to it, because that cheap trick wasn't having the same effect today. He shushed her again, the sound a little more harsh this time as he pushed his way inside.

Doing this felt so gross now. Had she really liked this before? With all his grunting and groaning and sweating on top of her, his teeth scraping against her neck? Was it always this uncomfortable? Did he always take so long? Was it actually taking that long, or did it only feel that way because of how much she hated it?

For a while, she tried to bide time by staring at the curtains, as if all she had to do was start at them long enough to know whether it was light or dark behind them. When Oswald told Myla that he loved her, she parroted the words back thoughtlessly. Too thoughtlessly, making it easy for him to catch the careless tone in her voice, and he stopped. Myla bit her tongue, cursing herself, but continued to stare at the curtains while she waited for him to say something. It would have been smarter by far to perform some sort of distraction instead – he was already inside her, it would have been so easy – but she wasn't quite quick enough with that type of deception.

"Please stop making that face."

Myla couldn't even imaging what her face looked like to him at that moment. "What?"

"That-that _face_. The one you are making right now." She heard the rising anger in Oswald's voice and tensed. "That expression that says you would rather be anywhere but here, and with anyone but me."

What could she say? The man was always right. From the second she woke up, all Myla had wanted to do was sink into the mattress and die. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry, just...look at me." Oswald hissed, jerking her head over so she had to face him. "All I want from you right now, is to look at me. Isn't that a simple request? You will look at me when I speak, and look at me when I tell you that I love you. Understood?"

Myla nodded.

"Yes or no, Myla. Do you understand?"

"Yes." She answered reluctantly.

"I'm glad." Throughout his little talk, he still managed to maintain that uncomfortable, unwavering eye contact that made her want to squirm. "Now, would you do me the kindness of smiling for me?"

The requested action proved to be a more difficult task than it should have been, but she must have pulled it off, considering the result seemed to please him.

"You know how much I love you, darling."

"I love you too." Myla was careful to say it more softly this time, less robotic. After she said it, for whatever reason, it all felt beyond strange and uncomfortable – she almost felt like crying it again, though she couldn't place why. There wasn't anything to cry about; it was just sex. They had sex all the time. Was she was supposed to be sad that he asked her to smile? Or say that he loved her? How stupid would she look then? Surely she hadn't become that dramatic a person.

Since the obvious staring off at the curtains had angered him, Myla chose this time to pull him in closer to her, so she might get away with staring off at the canopy instead. Instead of wondering what time it was, she thought about the potential homework from theology class that night, whenever night was. When that thoughts wore itself out (and it did rather quickly), she tried recalling simple sentence translations from the Intro to Russian class Jen begged Myla to take with her the year before. That was definitely a more consuming activity. Enough to where she didn't notice at first when he was done. He hadn't pulled out.

It wasn't the first time – she let him do it few weeks before, figuring her period was on the way. Also, because she was an idiot. Oswald was no idiot, though. That bastard knew full well how babies were made. Myla clenched her jaw as he withdrew from her, debating whether to say something now or build up a rant for later.

There was so much she wanted to say to him, but once she really started thinking about it, there was no narrowing down what she wanted to scream about first. And then she reminded herself how pointless any of it would be, because it was done. It was all done, and nothing she did or said to him was going to change the fact that it was done. All it would do was make him angry, and when Oswald was cross with her he became exceptionally good at making her feel like an ignorant and over-reactive child. He even said as much, which Myla felt was a little strange in context. Anyway, the energy she would use yelling at him would be much better served on getting dressed and leaving. Maybe she would stop at a corner store for condoms. Myla was always meaning to buy them, but of course there's a substantial difference between "going to" versus actually doing. Before, she had put it off because she hadn't rally minded going without them. She was a girl in a monogamous relationship with someone who more or less stated that they didn't want children – she trusted Oswald not to get too carried away. Then, after the...incident, Myla assumed she would leave. Or rather, she had assumed it would be easy to leave. If she was gone, a thing like condoms would hardly be an issue. Furthermore, the idea of buying condoms for him to use – when she didn't even want to be doing the thing that required them – seemed like a sign of giving up.

Myla continued to lay motionless in bed until he left, plus a few minutes more more, before dragging her sorry self up to get dressed. Who even cared what time it was, or if she had school soon. There wasn't even the usual solace of a long car ride into town to look forward to, as she was getting a new "chaperone" today. It was really too bad, as she had a lot to think about that she had been avoiding. Myla could only deal with so much negativity at once, but she could still feel everything, as it all slowly piled up in the back of her mind. Like a hazardous junk closet that you've come to avoid opening, knowing the clutter is bound to topple out should you choose to so much as crack the door. Whether you shove those things strait back or take the time to sift through it makes remarkably little difference.

Ignoring the wardrobe Oswald had created for her completely, Myla put on sweats. She didn't feel like playing the fancy hoe he expected her to be, not today. After the sweats went on, she put her hair up in the loosest, messiest bun and grabbed some cash out of the false bottom of her music box. On her way out the door, Myla checked her phone to see the time and groaned. Oswald had sent her text to meet him downstairs. It was hard to decide which was worse – being escorted from room to room by Gabe or Butch or being summoned through text messages. Both seemed very tactless, truth be told.

Knowing he likely wouldn't buy a lie about not seeing the message, Myla shoved her phone into her bag and walked downstairs to that stupid, overly-candlelit room she knew he would be in.

Of course, he wan in The Chair. Myla had fantasized about tipping that chair backwards and into the fireplace. Victor was a few steps inside and to the right, and next to him stood a girl with long legs and short, pink hair. Other than that bright pop of color, she had on an excess of black and leather, making it pretty that she was part of the Zsasz crew. And if that wasn't proof enough, the "V" scar Myla noticed under the girls' ear definitely drove the fact home.

Oswald frowned at her sloppy appearance, and it felt good in the most childish way to know how much this bit of civil disobedience was grating on him, even though he pushed on, always the professional.

"Myla," He said though thinned lips, "Victor has someone he would like you to meet."

The girl's name – or what Victor called her, anyway – was Mace, and despite the cheery shade of her hair, she seemed like the sort of person who might spend their free time putting out lit cigarettes on the elderly. Victor stood too close as he excitedly prattled on about he sharpshooting skills – how she could shoot a nickel flipped in the air from some impressive distance, and other such things that Myla didn't pay a lot of attention to, mostly because it was coming from Victor. As was the case with many, many people Myla had met through Oswald, she had recently gotten justification for the creepy vibe she had always gotten off of Victor Zsasz: the thin, wide-eyed man who stared too long, and sometimes reached out to touch her when she passed by. She had been slowly inching away from him the entire time he had been speaking to her.

"She'll be every bit as safe, as if I were standing next to her." He boasted to Oswald at the end of his list regarding Mace's talents.

Myla suppressed a snort, and Maces' eyes sharply flicked over to stare her down, as if she had actually let the noise slip. Maybe it was simply the way her face always looked, but Mace did not seem pleased by her assignment in the least. Unsurprising, reallys, since the assignment the girl was being given was essentially babysitting. The task at hand was immeasurably different than her usual work, Myla guessed. She definitely didn't see he need for a babysitter with exceptional sharpshooting skills, but it was what Oswald wanted, and at least it was someone she hadn't heard an extensive, bloody history on. For all intents and purposes, Myla could pretend Mace was a leather-clad restaurant hostess they came across at a gun range. Why the hell not?

After a short staring contest with her new acquaintance, Myla excused herself. If Mace was one of Victor's girls, and she had been "busy" the other night, it could mean a detailed story from Oswald on what they had been up to, if she chose to hang around. She decided she wasn't up for hearing that level of gore.

"Take Mace with you." Oswald reminded her.

She was sorely tempted to argue against it, because she desperately wanted that long drive to school all to herself, but bit her tongue.

"Before you go, though, I would like to speak to you. Just a minute, please, dear. Alone." The last word sounded a little more obnoxious than the rest. Mace and Victor left the room as instructed.

"So...what it that, that you're wearing?" He gestured at her disheveled attire, looking entirely displeased. "What is all that?"

"The same kind of outfit most students wear at night class." Myla answered flatly.

"Well, safe to say we both know you aren't 'most people' anymore." Right. Myla was apparently some dress-up sex doll know. "I would appreciate it very much if you would change before leaving."

Done. Anything that would get her out of this room with him quicker. Myla shot him the sunny smile he loved so much and told him she would.

Thankfully, her half-expectations of Oswald dragging things out with a lecture on the importance of appearances proved to be false. Not even an extra comment on how truly awful she looked escaped him – he didn't even budge from his seat to give her a goodbye hug. Maybe she looked too gross to show affection to. Interesting. That might be useful to know.

Bypassing his "advice", Myla walked past the stairs, strait to the front door. Mace was already waiting for her outside, and followed her to the car.

"Wasn't expecting this junker to be yours." Mace noted, watching the way Myla had to jimmy her key around to unlock the passenger door. Her voice sounded a lot more girlish than Myla had anticipated.

"Well it is." Myla snapped. "So get in."

Maces' severe expression suddenly shifted to one of bemusement.

It became clear that Mace wouldn't be one to expect smalltalk, or even general friendliness, which was actually something of a relief. Even though it had only been for a couple hours, it had been exausting all the same to deal with Butch before. Myla didn't exactly know the extent of Maces' duties, but for now, at least talking didn't appear to be among them.

There was a pharmacy about a block down from University. Even though she could have gotten a morning after pill for close to free at the nurses office, a legitimate pharmacy wouldn't allow more than one person up to the counter for privacy reasons, and would also put everything – even condoms – in a bag right there, so it would all look like your average prescription pick up. The less Mace knew, the better.

"What're we here for?" Mace asked as Myla parked.

"I have to get something." Myla answered quickly.

"I was under the impression you needed to go to school and nowhere else."

"Yeah, except I remembered something else I needed to do." Myla pressed on. "It'll just take a minute."

Mace still looked skeptical. "What for?" She asked again.

"Just...birth control." Myla lied. Well, sort of lied.

Mace eyed her for a minute, leading Myla to believe she had been caught in her "sort-of" fib, then undid her seat belt.

"Five minutes."


	23. Chapter 23

"I had an interesting little chat with 'Mace', after you went to bed last night."

Lord, that tone. Why couldn't he just come out with it and tell her she was screwed? That's all it was.

"Apparently, before class, you stopped off at a pharmacy. For your birth control." Oswald pushed away from the wall to stand behind her, leaning forward until his head hovered just above her shoulder. "Do you hear what is wrong with that sentence?"

Really, Myla didn't know why he bothered with this. Was in entertaining for him? Fun somehow?

"That

Oswald snapped his fingers, causing her to flinch. "That's right – you've never been on birth control."

A string of curses that Myla wouldn't dare to speak sounded off loudly in her head. She wished he would shut up. She wished he wasn't here. She wished most of all that he was only days away from waking up and telling her she was too much of a hassle for him. That's the scenario Myla prayed she was succeeding at working toward, anyway. Taking a deep breath, she set down the blush brush, and finally met his glare in the mirror.

"This is incredible hurtful, Myla." He said, looking anything but hurt. "I should be able to trust you above all – do you not want me to trust you anymore?"

The question he posed didn't have a right answer, Myla knew that much. A "no" would launch a more serious discussion that she would want to be a part of even less than this one. "Yes" would only lead to a different set of equally patronizing questions.

After it became clear she wasn't set on providing him with either answer, Oswald continued. "Mace also admitted that you left her sight for about two minutes. Care to tell me what you did in that time?"

Truthfully, she slipped away to the seasonal aisle, hiding behind a large display of assorted Valentine's teddy bears to try and take the pill. The thought behind it was that she wasn't sure how safe she would feel taking it at home, only to find herself too nervous to take it right then.

Oswald bit his tongue. "Myla, I want to continue trusting you – really I do – but I won't if I think you're sneaking around. Just tell me where you went, and it will be fine. Were you meeting someone?"

Myla shook her head.

"Made a phone call, perhaps?"

"No." Were these serious questions? Was two minutes really enough time for secret meetings and phone calls. Kudos to the people who could pull it off, because all Myla could accomplish in two minutes was properly brushing her teeth, which was no impressive feat, obviously.

"I don't understand then. What were you doing that required you to shirk Mace like that?"

"Nothing nearly as important as you seem to think." She frowned. At this point, she was convinced that no type of anger or punishment could possibly compare to how insufferable this conversation had become. And she knew Oswald could go on like this forever, so before it came to that, Myla pointed toward her bag in the corner. "It's still in there, if you really must know. The 'secret'."

Oswald picked up her bag, setting it one the vanity, so she had to watch him remove everything from it one by one, until he came across the crumpled pharmacy bag she had shoved to the bottom. Myla turned to finish her face while he thought of what to say.

"Why would you lie about something like this?" He wasn't angry or annoyed by it – he actually seemed somewhat confused. Almost like he didn't fully understand what those things were for.

There were many things Myla thought to say, most of all the fresh confrontation for what he did yesterday, but didn't know how to talk about these things she was feeling without sounding ridiculous or like she wanted a reason to fight. She was not out to be called a child today. "I guess I didn't think of it as lying." She settled on. "Technically they are considered birth control."

"Yes, I suppose they are." Oswald's eyes narrowed. He enjoyed the utilization of a good verbal loophole as much as anyone, but did not appreciate it in this particular instance. "This is still a bit concerning to find." He said, tapping the side of the condom box."

"How so?"

His expression soured. "Would it look good on me if you found hidden condoms that I wasn't using with you?"

"They weren't hidden, and the box is unopened." Myla said through clenched teeth. "It's not like they were all loose in my purse."

"True – but you've had them since yesterday. Why didn't you ask me to wear one just now? I would have, you know."

She hadn't because she was worried that without a serious conversation first, he might refuse. That answer seemed the surest way to be labeled a "child", though. "I don't know." Her voice was starting to sound whiny. Better pull the plug on that. "You didn't exactly give me a chance." That was to say he had woken her up by pushing into her.

Oswald seemed to remember this and relented. "Right. Fair enough."

"Do you want kids, or not?" Myla asked. She still hadn't taken the pill. His potential response worried her, but she was almost certain that putting him on the spot would produce the answer she wanted.

"No." Oswald answered after a moment or two, looking a bit flustered, just like she hoped. "No, I suppose not...yet."

Myla struggled to hide her relief. She could have done well without the "yet", but she wasn't going to push it. "We're on the same page, then." Standing up, she snatched the box with the pill, and left Oswald standing there. As she walked to the kitchen for a glass of juice to wash it down, Myla turned over the box in her hands, reading the list of side effects, noting the fact that it would likely delay her period. What fun things to worry about while already under the stress at the thought of pregnancy. There was additional literature inside, which she also read, even though it was all more or less a reiteration of what was on the box, before finally removing the small pill from the plastic and foil casing. Myla never liked taking pills – the taste of them always made her gag – but this one went down without an issue. In some completely irrational way, that felt like a good sign.

How Oswald managed to skulk around the house so quietly, Myla would never know. Maybe she was just oblivious. In any case, Myla felt rooted to the kitchen floor as he walked up to her, pulling her into a hug. Her body was rigid against his, silently rejecting the affection.

"I'm sorry." Oswald said softly.

Sometimes the apologies felt worse than the passive-aggressive comments or the angry, scornful criticisms. They tugged on her heart, and reminded her that that still loved him. For a while she would almost feel convinced that she should start acting like nothing had ever happened, though it was hard to tell which life would mean a worse hell.

Her voice threatened to break when she spoke, but she reigned herself in. "It's okay." She knew it wasn't, but saying so wasn't going to make the situation any different.

Oswald smoothed back her hair and kissed her forehead. "Good." Just like that, he thought it was over with. A simple sorry was all he ever though he had to do to wipe his hands clean of the problems he caused her.

"I have to go to class now." Myla mumbled into his shoulder.

"Right, right." He allowed her to pull away, watching her carefully as she left the room.

The keys were missing from the hook, and when Myla looked out the window she saw her car running, a figure she assumed was Mace sitting in it. She walked outside and got into the car, where she was received by the nastiest look she had ever witnessed resting of Maces' face.

The entire drive, Mace glowered at her from the passengers seat so intently, Myla wanted to joke that she could turn off the heat, since Mace's obvious hatred was likely enough to warm them up. As they parked in the student lot, Mace grabbed her arm to prevent her from leaving the car.

"So, you have any good talks with your boyfriend this morning? Because I had a hell of one with him last night." The corners of Maces' mouth twisted into a wide, almost cartoonish smile that didn't at all fit the anger of her tone.

"I'm sorry if I got you into any trouble." Myla couldn't stand another conversation about this. It had been a dumb move and she knew better now.

"What, do you think this is kindergarten?" Mace snapped. "I wasn't just 'in trouble', Miss Priss. Mistakes at my job are a death sentence."

"Sorry." Myla mumbled. Of course she felt bad, but there wasn't really anything else she could offer.

Maces' eyes searched her face for a moment, prepared to catch her lying. "So what did you really get?"

It wasn't really any of Maces' business, but Myla figured telling her the thing she had almost died for was the least she could do. "Morning after pill." Myla admitted meekly.

"Fuck, that was it? I know it's technically against my job description, but I would've told him we stopped for candy bars if it was that big a deal for you." Mace let out a dry, mocking laugh. "Don't ever fucking lie to me like that again."

"Okay."

"So you took it?"

Myla nodded, but didn't speak. She had felt off since taking it. Emotional. It wasn't so much the pill's fault (that was probably impossible) – it was the reason she had to take it. It was Oswald's apology in the kitchen, and that she couldn't talk to anyone about how she felt about anything anymore, much less what she was going through in his house.

"You...are you okay?" Mace looked...not concerned, exactly, but somewhere in that ballpark.

It was unclear what exactly triggered it. All Myla knew was that one second she had been preparing to rip free from Mace' grip and head to class, and the next she found herself loudly ugly crying in the car.

Mace dropped the maybe concern, now confused and somewhat disgusted by her crying. "Don't do...that." She released her grip on Myla's arm, holding up her hands. "We're all good."

Myla cried harder. It was embarrassing to do in from of Mace, but damn if it didn't feel so good, even if it was that pathetic sort of crying where you start shaking and sniveling and seizing up between sobs. She hadn't had a cry like this in a very long time and it was shaping up to be incredibly therapeutic.

"Hey, we've all been there, right?" Mace attempted awkwardly. "You know, slip ups happen. It'll be...alright?"

Mace didn't have a clue. It wasn't "alright". Nothing was "alright" anymore. There wasn't anything in Myla's life at the moment that wasn't a huge mess, and she hated it so much. What she hated most right now was how aware she was of the fact that she was crying off her makeup. She would have to put it back on before Oswald saw her and passive-aggressively lectured her on the importance of appearances. Again. Mace hastily searched the car for napkins, finding a few in the passenger compartment and tossed them into Myla's lap.

"I'm really sorry." Myla hiccuped, somehow adding to the level of pathetic she had descended into. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble. I really didn't want to." This continued on for some time, wailing out repetitive apologies like a broken record while Mace stared on in silent horror, as if she had never been witness to anything so uncomfortable n all her life. Eventually, the crying receded, much to Mace's relief. Even though Myla was still shaking terribly, the tears did stop coming, and even with the impending headache and nasal congestion, she still managed to feel a little better for it.

"Is – are you done?" Mace asked cautiously. "Is it over?"

"Yeah." Myla's voice came out as a croak when she answered. "I'm done."

Mace let out a deep sigh. "Oh, thank fuck. Please don't cry like that anymore."

"Sorry." Hopefully Myla's voice wouldn't sound this bad by the time she got home.

An awkward silence ensued for a few minutes. They were late for class, thanks to Myla's impromptu crying session, but neither felt bothered enough by it to leave the car. Mace turned toward when she felt it had been quiet long enough.

"Hey, so...why were you so slick about getting that pill anyway?"

"I don't know." Myla lied. Part of it was because there was no way of predicting what Oswald chose to become irritated at, which led to scenarios that she would rather not imagine: like refusing to let her take it for whatever obscure reason he could think up.

"Sorry for bringing it up, but you just seem awful torn up about it is all."

"It's whatever."

"Well, I guess we can stay here in the car if you want." Mace offered. "I'm not here to force you to go to school, so you don't have to go."

"Thanks." Good, because Myla did not want to go – especially not this class. This was her class with Jen and Riley, who would notice how awful she looked, and know something was up, and ask questions. That was something Myla definitely didn't feel up to right now. Tonight, she would take Mace up on the offer to sit in the car for an hour, and patch up her appearance. Make plans for a very long shower at home, and perhaps also a mug cake.

"If he asks, though – and let's be real here, he will ask – I am going to have to tell him you didn't go to class. Okay?" Mace warned.

"That's okay." Myla certainly didn't want Mace risking her life over something as trivial as ditching class to sit in the car, and she understood that Maces' job was about reporting to Oswald, not guarding her secrecy.

Something in her expression didn't sit right with Mace. "Hey so, feel free to be offended by this if I'm wrong – and please don't start crying again either way – but he – Oswald – he doesn't, you know...hurt you, or like, force you to do anything, does he?"

"What?"

"Nevermind." Mace quickly tried to retract the question. "I shouldn't be asking."

"Okay, sure." Myla stuffed the snot-soaked napkins in the door. "So why did you ask?"

Mace shrugged. "You looked kind of scared when I said I would tell Penguin that you ditched class."

"Oh." She wasn't scared that Oswald would be angry over her skipping a class, per say – she doubted he would care at all. If Myla looked upset, it was because she had to deal with him at all.

As for Mace's questions, she wasn't even sure of their intentions, much less knew how to answer them. She was happy that they appeared to have been dropped for now. While it would have been nice to have someone to talk to, Mace was not the person for it. Still, it was comforting to know that someone was concerned about whether she was being beaten, or whatever Mace was trying to insinuate. Sometimes, Myla almost wished it was something like that – maybe she would feel like the choice to leave him was somehow more valid that way – but he didn't, he was just...there. He mocked and belittled her, but he would never hit her. It was a much different kind of hurt than Mace implied. And Oswald didn't "make" her do anything either – she just let him do what he wanted because it wasn't worth the fight. Nothing was worth the fight. Myla hated herself for everything she let him do, but never challenged it. Rejection or resistance only made things difficult, it seemed.

A buzz went off in Myla's purse. Probably Jen calling, asking where she was. Mace pulled out her own phone in case it turned out to be Oswald who Myla was ignoring.

"Um, just an elective lit class." The phone started buzzing again. Myla reached into the bag and turned it off. "Not really a big deal for me to miss."

"Okay."

Myla's head was throbbing. She leaned her chair back, closed her eyes, and imagined that she had somewhere else to go in an hour.


	24. Chapter 24

Mace soon maintained a fairly regular presence in the mansion, and in spite of the fact that she was being paid to be around, Myla liked to think that they were becoming rather friendly. She wasn't terrible company; Mace had been a much more agreeable person since the crying incident in the car. Regardless of the reason for it, it was still nice to have some form of company, whether the friendliness had been spurred on by pity or not. Myla would gladly take it either way.

That afternoon saw Myla stretched out on the couch, not feeling at all bothered to move even though her arm had been at an odd, uncomfortable angle for some time. Mace sat on the floor, flipping through channels. There were other things Myla knew she should have been doing instead – like her mountain of untouched homework assignments, for one – but that was more cumbersome task than she considered herself up for.

The past week or so she had been mulling over thought of school, whether it was worth it. They were only a little over a month into the semester, and Myla hadn't done much else other than show up for class and take a quiz or two. She didn't do homework, she didn't take notes – she and Mace were there just to sit around, basically, which they could do just as well at the Manor. The time out of the house was something of a perk at first, but like everything else in her life, it all felt like an incredible waste. There had to be something better that she could be doing.

"I think I'll take a semester off." Myla mused thoughtlessly.

Mace lowered the remote. "For what?"

"I don't know. I'm already so behind." The more she spoke about it, the more it actually seemed like a decent idea. Maybe Myla would have her life together by fall. Maybe her life would be so together, she would switch to a major that wouldn't raise strangers eyebrows when she talked about it. Maybe she would join a gym.

"Your choice, I guess." Mace said. Dear God, she hoped that Myla quitting school wouldn't mean being stuck in this house all day every day. If that were the case, she would definitely be negotiating her status to on-call.

Myla rolled onto her side, muscles aching from the bad position she had left herself in for the last few hours. "Did you ever go to college?" Mace, though generally nicer than she had been at the start, was still a very private person, who sometimes dodged even simple questions about herself. It really clashed with Myla's more open disposition, and her remarkably still-active desires to get to know others.

"No." Mace frowned, turning off the TV. She couldn't stand background noise during conversation. "High school dropout, actually. Victor helped me fall off the grid."

Myla waited a moment, to see if Mace would say she was joking, because she couldn't tell. "You've been doing...this...since high school?" This. Myla silently applauded herself on her skillful maneuver away from the phrase "killing people for a living".

"Yep." The answer came as casually as if Mace were agreeing that she liked hamburgers.

Myla still wasn't used to the blasé attitude around this place when it came to things such as murder. "Why?"

For someone who had previously passed up on all basic personal inquiries, Mace didn't appear at all unnerved by these types of questions. "Well, a few years ago, and eccentric wierdo told me I was a good shot, and asked if I wanted to work for him. Eventually I took him up on it."

Glossing over the disturbing fact that "a few years" meant that Mace might possibly still be a teenager, Myla had to ask, "You wanted to do it?"

"Not at first, to be honest. I put up a respectable front for a while." Mace explained, as if her waiting had made the decision a better one. "Until he had something to offer me. A trade of sorts."

Myla couldn't quite imagine what she might trade in exchange for such a life. Or maybe she could, but she wasn't sure she wanted to push Mace to know what she had given up.

"Anyway," Mace suddenly sprang up from the floor, putting a swift and thankful end to that conversation, "I think we should go someplace that isn't school, for once. I'm not sitting here all day if you drop out."

"Can I?" Myla asked, half-joking. Only half.

"As long as I'm with you, that's the deal." Mace would be lying if she said she wasn't starting to find Myla somewhat endearing, at least in a wounded puppy sort of way, but there were still many aspects of her personality that grated on her – like her constant worry over what was "allowed". She had to assume Penguin must have Myla living under a completely different standard, because to Mace he had made it seem like she was more or less entitled to do whatever she pleased, and was simply in need of basic protection.

"Well okay." Myla said skeptically, as if she didn't fully believe her. "What do you want to do, then?"

Mace scoffed. "Who cares? Let's just get in your crap car and go."

After deciding she could very well do with something that wasn't home or school, Myla gracelessly rolled off the couch and left the room with Mace, splitting off with her when they got to the stairs so she could get her things.

"I'll tell Cobblepot we're leaving." Mace called, continuing her way down the hall to the conference room. Oswald was alone, for once. Probably because he was on the phone, which he promptly set down on the table as Mace shut the door behind her.

"Afternoon, Miss Shepherd."

Mace bit her tongue. "It's just Mace, sir."

"Yes, of course it is." He smiled. "Are you in need of something, Mace?"

"Not at all, sir. I'm here to let you know that Myla wants to step out for a bit."

"Oh?" That was surprising. Myla had expressed very little desire to leave the house of late. Where to?"

"Movies." When they decided where they would rather go, all she had to do was send him a text to say Myla had changed her mind. No big deal.

"Huh." Oswald's jaw shifted, thinking. "Well then...I don't particularly care how long you choose to stay out, but I would be sure to keep any visits to the Village to a minimum. You should be especially mindful to keep her away from the North 5th and west Edwidge areas. She always tries to gravitate toward her old neighborhoods, but it makes her...very sad. Actually, you should insist on driving."

It was hard to imagine Myla becoming even more morose than she already was, but Mace didn't doubt that she would manage it somehow. "Sure thing, sir." With guidelines for the night established, Mace turned to leave.

"Hold on, please, Mace." Oswald called after her. "Do you have anything to report?"

Mace thought back on the last few hours for anything with the potential to pique his interest. "She talked about quitting school. Well, I guess not so much quitting as just taking some time off from it."

"Hm." Oswald didn't like that. Something about it wasn't right. "Did she say why? Is she planning to do anything in lieu of school, or…?"

"Something about behind in schoolwork, and I honestly don't think she's thought that far ahead, sir." Perhaps underneath the doe-eyed, cutesy act, Myla actually was a clever person who made plans, but that all remained to be seen.

Oswald mumbled something under his breath that Mace couldn't quite make out.

"Do you want me to talk to her about it some more?"

"No." Oswald sighed. "That won't be necessary. You can leave now."

Mace nodded, leaving to meet up with Myla in the foyer. Wither her gone, Oswald picked the phone back up. "Hello."

"Oh, good." Edward said dryly. "You left me talking to myself for a very time, you know."

"Apologies, dear friend." Oswald didn't have the patience for banter.

"So, what was so important that there was no time for a 'hang on a minute'?"

"Just a quick chat with Victor's 'Mace' about Myla." His mind jumped back to the end of their conversation, turning with ideas on what Myla could be up to. Oswald couldn't believe that she would simply quit school for no reason. How far behind could one possibly get in just a few weeks? So incredibly far behind they felt they had no hope of finishing the year, at that?

"Ah yes, extremely important stuff, I bet." Edward continued in his flat tone. "How is Myla?"

"The same, more or less. I guess now she wants to leave school." Saying it aloud made Oswald feel even more uneasy about it.

"Well that's unfortunate."

"I suppose it is. I would mind it less if I knew what plans she had to fill that space." Oswald tapped his pen against the table. Thus far, he had only reached one potential answer to explain Myla's decision. "She doesn't like being in this house anymore, Edward – here, with me. She practically counts the seconds until she leaves for class."

"I'm sure she'll find something to do."

"I think she's leaving me."

Edward paused, surprised by his friend's sudden show of paranoia. "That's quite a reaction to hearing she wants to quit school."

The idea seemed to make more sense to him upon saying it. "Edward, she doesn't want to go back to her family, she quit her job, she ignores her friends – and now, apparently, no school. Every anchor tying her down has been severed."

"That does seem a little damning," Edward resisted the urge to point out that Oswald had been responsible for severing at least half of those ties, "but leaving you seems unlikely. She would have to, as the kids say, 'ghost' herself, and we both know she lacks the stealth and resources for that."

"Stealth can be learned through practice, and the resources she requires are frequently found right under this roof." Though Oswald did doubt that anyone under his leadership would be so asinine as to help her acquire them behind his back.

"Right...nevermind."

Oswald sighed, leaning back in his chair. "This is disappointing."

"Hasn't Myla been rather difficult lately?" Edward brought up. "Why not just let her go?"

"She isn't nearly as bothersome as she imagines herself to be." Oswald defended. "Honestly, it's been more entertaining than anything." It can be fun at times, when people push you a little, and Oswald wasn't one to give up on things. Myla was still a fair companion, and dealing with her at her self-proclaimed worst was an effortless task. At the end of the day, she was a perfectly lovely girl, warm and wonderful lying next to him, and her naivete – that foolishly beautiful trait that drew him to her so fervently in the first place – was still there, though guarded, and so very hard to come by.

"Okay." Edward said skeptically. He was so tired of the topic of relationship problems. "Confront her, then."

"No." Oswald frowned. "I'd rather not put the idea in her head, if I happen to be wrong." There was a chance that he could be wrong. Myla had hardly mastered the art of lying, and she knew it. One thing she had picked up rather quickly though, was an added sense of perception – a good enough sense to where she could plainly tell when he was holding back anger or nerves, which made it feasible that his questions might sound off alarms.

"I'll think of...something." He muttered. Oswald did love Myla, in his own way, and would certainly miss her if she were gone. She was, of course, welcome to try and leave, but he had a mind not to allow her to slip out so easily.

He would think of something. He always did.


	25. Chapter 25

This was supposed to be Myla's last semester of undergrad, but the idea of taking a year off despite being so close to the finish line didn't bother her in the slightest.

Within a few days of suggesting a break from school (to herself), she stopped going to class. The consequences of it were no where near as devastating as teachers had warned, but she supposed that even if they had been, she was too detached from it to care. She still left the house on school nights, spending them going to movies or shopping or just bumming around with Mace. It was nice to regain something of a sense of normalcy, in the face all the fear, sadness, and uncertainty that had consumed her life of late.

If only that feeling would spread to her home life. Ever since Myla quit school, Oswald had become increasingly on-edge: randomly posing very odd, out of place questions, and interrogating her about the slightest unsupervised gaps between time with Mace and time with him. There had been very few instance which had left Oswald so emotionally transparent, and no matter how slick he believed himself to be in this particular instance, Myla could practically taste the insecurity. Something happened. Something she missed – or that he wanted her to miss, anyway.

At first, she was excited to think that maybe her callous indifference was beginning to wear him thin, but on second thought it felt like a bit of a stretch. How would indifference cause a person to leap from mild aggression to borderline paranoid? No, it was something else. Work-related stress, maybe. After considering this, Myla tried not to dwell on why – to do so might crack the steadily growing facade of apathy she had been working so hard to achieve – but was still curious. Enough to be tempted to ask someone about it. Gabe or Mace might supply her with some insight.

Now would be an opportune time to ask. Myla was currently across the room on the computer, looking up various hotspots to visit, and other tourist-y things Mace dictated to her from the bed. Suddenly prompted by the knowledge that neither of them have seen a live theater show, Myla tossed a credit card for Mace to use to buy tickets for the weekend.

"How many?" Mace asked.

"Just two."

Mace added five, just in case. "You know, you should really go with your...guy." She didn't know what exactly to refer Oswald as – it was difficult to tell whether the two had at some point been a part of a real, loving relationship, or if Myla was the most ungrateful sugar baby in existence. Fortunately, Mace had no desire to be so involved, which put a damper of the need to ask about such things.

"I would rather go with you." Myla said simply. "Speaking of Oz, though, has anything been going wrong?"

Maces' eyes flicked up from the screen. "Wrong with what?"

"I don't know...business or whatever." Myla kept her cool, trying to remain nonchalant, which involved her staring off at the wall in hopes that nothing could be told from her expression. Wouldn't want to look like she was pushing too hard about this. "He's just been stressed and weird the last couple weeks."

"Well, as far as I know, everything is great." Business appeared to be running just fine, and Mace hadn't been receiving any orders – from Penguin or Zsasz – that were outside the usual.

"Hm." In accordance with her other talents, Myla supposed that Mace was probably an excellent liar, but accepted the answer all the same. Mace didn't have anything to lose by lying to her, but it wasn't as if Myla had any place to fault her if she was.

"Has he been alright to you, besides all that?" Mace may not have particularly cared about their relationship, but she always found herself pulled by the thought of Myla's allusions toward abuse that time she cried in the car. Plus, when it came to the aspect of her job that involved reporting to Oswald, she found it best to gather everything Myla said. She already knew how jazzed Cobblepot would be to hear that Myla was mildly concerned about his stress level, but it wouldn't hurt to poke around a minute more.

"It's been the same, more or less." Myla said, a little sadly. "He's a little more intense, I guess, but things are okay otherwise."

"And you're sure you don't want to take him to this show?"

"Maybe I will." But probably not. Why would she make such a gesture when she was trying to make Oswald sick of her?

Mace purchased the five tickets anyway and shut the laptop, tossing it onto the bed next to Myla, who was staring down rather intently at her.

"Do you always dye it pink?"

"My hair?" Mace asked. That pop-y shade of her hair had faded out quite a bit, and grown out enough to where anyone could plainly see that her natural color was a light, ashy brown. "Pretty much, yeah. I go platinum from time to time, but it's a lot of work."

"Is pink a favorite color or something?" These were dumb questions, but it was nice to talk about dumb, simple things on occasion.

"Not really...I just like it." Mace shrugged. "At this point, I've had it long enough to where it's kind of my signature."

"So you've built a name on pink hair?"

"Trust me, the right people in Gotham know who I am." Mace – Pink Lady, Pink Lemonaide, Princess Bubblegum.. "I'll be at a Victor level of notoriety in no time."

Myla snorted. "Okay then. Wanna go out for lunch?"

"You know it." Mace picked herself up from the floor. "Meet you by the door?"

"Yep."

As Mace left the room, Myla put her card back in her purse and slid off the bed before heading off to meet Mace.

A door opened, just slightly as she was coming up to it, causing her to pause as she waited for someone to exit the room. She didn't like it when people walked behind her anymore. Not in this house.

A voice called her name from the crack.

It took a second for the voices familiarity to register in her head. "Mr. Nygma?"

"Myla." He called out again, an urgent whisper.

This was a gap in time she didn't really want to potentially explain to Oswald, but...it was only Edward. And whatever he wanted would probably be quick. She walked up to the door, allowing him to open it a bit further before entering the room. He shut it, and they were briefly enveloped in semi-darkness.

Myla reached out to flip the switch, only to have her hand pushed back down to her side.

"Wait." He whispered harshly.

Not a second sooner had the word left his mouth did Maces' quiet footsteps sounded in the hall outside the room.

Her eyes steadily adjusted, just enough to see his outline against the wall, as she waited with him until the footsteps disappeared. Myla panicked a little. She had very limited time now, before Mace would go back upstairs to look for her. After that she would go to Oswald to ask if he had seen her, causing hell for her later.

Edward waited a few moments more before turning the light on himself. His face was difficult for Myla to read, but he appeared to be both nervous and, strangely, somewhat annoyed, as if she was forcing him to be there.

"Something wrong?" She asked, ignoring both the weirdness of the situation and his slight negativity toward her.

Edward shifted awkwardly, taking a few extra moments to collect his thoughts.

"Oswald isn't happy." He said finally.

"Good" was the initial response Myla wanted to give, because she wasn't happy either. Was this supposed to be some friendly advance notice that she was getting dumped? Was Oswald using Edward to dump her? A lame, high school move to be sure, but she wouldn't get too upset over it.

Instead she kept her answer neutral with a simple "Oh."

"Is that it? 'Oh'?"

Myla shrugged. There was really nothing else to say until she knew where this conversation was going.

"Well, allow me to be a bit more clear. I don't like it when my friends are unhappy."

That answer was far from clear. In fact, it managed to be even more vague and unhelpful than his last statement. No one likes when their friend is unhappy, after all.

"Alright...but hey, since we're alone for once, and I know this is a total longshot – did you keep my sweater?"

"Sweater?"

"Yeah. I wore that thing to like every tutoring session we had because you said you loved the color."

"Sweater." He hadn't been actually been talking about the sweater – he had meant her eyes. Even in the semi-darkness of this room her eyes shone out to him. Doll-like, bottle green, with splashes of a deeper, pine color. Flecks of silver. They were the first thing he noticed about her. The only thing, really, at their first meeting.

"Yeah. Dark green, really soft. It was a bit large on me, but that just made it insanely comfortable. I really liked that sweater, and I left in your apartment...the last time."

Edward honestly couldn't remember whether the sweater was in a box, or if it had joined the rest of that delicious cake she had brought him in the garbage, but he definitely couldn't feign ignorance when it came to the night she had left it.

"I parked like three blocks away, just so you know. It was a very cold walk to my car."

"My apologies for that." "And another for making you wait three years for an apology. Plus one more apology, because I don't think I have your sweater."

Bummer. "It was worth a shot."

Edward stood up strait again. "Now, about Oswald -"

"-Yeah, and now it's my turn to say I'm sorry," Myla wasn't really, "because I don't really know what you expect me to do, and, I kind of don't care."

Edward shot her a look. "Myla, please." He scoffed. "Look, whatever goal you're working toward is not working."

"Hm." Wasn't it though? If it wasn't working, why was Oswald's right-hand man confronting her like this? "So, I'm just supposed to wait around for him to get bored of me? That's a terrible suggestion for Plan B."

"I understand you, I do, but...How do I put this delicately." After making a mock of a thinking pose, he snapped his fingers."Right – it well and truly does not matter what you want. Oswald wants you here. That is what matters." Edward's expression had steadily grown darker, his voice stronger – more self-assured – as their conversation progressed. He had also been taking steps toward her, at a pace so slow Myla didn't notice she had been backing away from him; not even as she found herself against the wall.

"I just...I want to leave."

"Myla, you are very pretty, and very weak. And as long as you're pretty and weak, he won't be annoyed into wanting you to leave – I mean really, now – how is your Plan A any better than my suggestion? I will says that you are, at the very least upsetting him with these...transparent efforts of yours." Edward said through clenched teeth. "And you know what happens when he's upset? He comes to me. And I have to sit there, and listen to him whine, and worry, and the way he says your name. I think I hate that most of all"

"I like it better with the 'My' anyway."

"No – you made yourself think you liked it better because it was easier than correcting people." Edward tapped the side of his head. "Steel trap, remember?"

"Okay, so what if Oz says 'My' instead of 'Me' – just tune it out. Why do you even care? You hardly have the right to be jealous or anything."

He ignored her. "I honestly can't believe how hard your making this on yourself." Edward had mistakenly assumed this conversation would be a fairly easy one, especially considering the (mostly) friendly past they shared. People changed, that much was true. Lord knew he had, but Myla...Myla had been a total doll – a cupcake – back when they were first acquainted. Now, she was borderline arrogant. Childish. Infuriating. Maybe Oswald was being a glutton for punishment.

"I don't care." She really needed to leave. Wouldn't he be aware that every second he made her stay increased to odds of another relationship rant from Oswald? "I honestly don't care anymore. It's time for me to go."

The wind was knocked out of her as Myla found herself pinned against the wall, Edward's forearm on her throat. She noticed the shiny glint of metal in his hand. What was that? A scalpel? Not the most threatening weapon, but it would leave her bleeding out on the hardwood all the same, should Edward choose that course of action.

"You should care. You have no idea how much you should care." Edward's voice was remarkably, unnervingly calm. "Starting...well, now, I suppose – I would start doing your very best to make Oswald happy again. Just think of how easy that would be: smiling your smile, and baking your muffins – just like you used to, back when Oswald was content to keep your name out of his mouth." He stood up slightly, making it so Myla had to stand on her tiptoes to avoid choking. "I know you can pretend, at the very least, Myla. That's always been a strong suit of yours now, hasn't it?" Edward taunted. "Act like you accept him, or...die trying."

"Did you really have to make a pun of this?" For fuck's sake, why couldn't Myla have comebacks outside of threatening situations?

"It was a good line, wasn't it?" He pressed his arm just the slightest bit more against her throat, waving the staff of the scalpel between his fingers. "Just say you'll make him happy."

"Say it." He hissed. The scalpel was firmly gripped in his hand now, and Myla could feel the back of the blade scratching lightly against her neck. She thought about kicking him, but worried it either might not work, and whether she would be able to leave the room fast enough if it did. The pressure on her throat was starting to feel unbearable. Myla struggled to stay balanced and saw stars.

"I will." Her voice was faint and hoarse as she reluctantly agreed.

The pressure disappeared and she nearly collapsed on the floor, barely having the time or strength to catch herself between gasping and choking from the sudden influx of air in her lungs. Edward crouched down in front of her, casually observing the way her body suddenly started shaking in that pathetic, jumpy sort of way that happens when someone is fighting not to cry. Myla flinched when he reached out to her to help her up. If that mild bit of violence hadn't felt so blissful, the reaction might have left him feeling ashamed.

"Myla." Edward said her name softly, in the kind of tone one might use to coax a frightened cat out from under the bed. Slowly, after she'd gained her breath and reigned her emotions in, Myla turned up her gaze to his.

"I knew you were still a good girl."


	26. Chapter 26

When Myla was little – around seven or so – Jasmine would use her to steal things. Always the compliant one, Myla had never once thought to question her, and definitely didn't know better at the time to say "no" to her cousin on those weekend family outings, when Jasmine would whisper to stay quiet as she slipped something into her pocket. Myla did as she was requested, never saying anything at all.

One day, while they were all putting away groceries, Jasmine went to retrieve the candy bar she had stashed in Myla's coat, and it fell rather conspicuously onto the kitchen tile. Liv noticed immediately, of course, prompting her and her husband to launch into a very scathing lecture on the consequences of stealing – they even pretended to call the cops. Myla didn't say anything; she stood there and cried until they decided there was no more on the subject to put her through.

She felt seven again. Since their "talk", Edward was almost always around, observing. Making sure she was following through, perhaps. That in itself wasn't too awful – what made it awful was the way he smiled at her. Like nothing happened. Nothing was wrong. Like the way Jasmine had smiled at her while Liv and Roy reamed Myla for "thievery". The goal had never been "just" to steal, it seemed – just like how she was sure Edward's goal wasn't simply about saying she needed to work on her relationship. To a greater extent, it had been about seeing Myla get knocked down a peg. While Edward stood just a few feet away from her, she would feel sick and cold. In the back of her mind, her guardians were still yelling at her, and in all this time she was still only silent. Like Edward wanted. Like a good girl.

"Good girl". The words sent a shiver down Myla's spine, remember the way Edward had looked at her while he said it – how he said it. Three years ago, she leaned a very hard lesson in the form of finding out that Edward was not nearly as nice and simple as she thought, but the Edward she was dealing with now was an even more unwelcome change from the man who was Dad Jokes.

Myla had always considered herself a good person, and until this last year, she had never really felt taken advantage of due of it. She had grown to think of the trait as a reward in itself, as a good mindset affords its owner an opportunistic sort of existence. Being a good person is just nice. People trust you more, and typically like being around you more. It feels exceptional – like you're a special, shining pillar of positivity in a world everyone around you is convinced is awful and cannot be helped. Unfortunately, while being good had been such a well-accepted definition to Myla, the trait had become tarnished and lackluster. The fear of looking rude and superficial led her to someone who turned out to be much different than she wanted to believe. She had allowed herself to become harsh and deceitful – on purpose, no less.

But she still hadn't allowed herself to consider that she was "bad". She was turning into something very unfamiliar, but it didn't necessarily feel "bad". At some point, it finally just hit her that things were different now; darker, and much more different than anything she had ever expected to come upon in her life dedicated to niceties. With the circumstances changed to this degree, Myla needed to change herself too. It wasn't that she was a terrible person – just an adaptive one, and there's nothing wrong with adapting to one's situation.

Even if it all felt a little, well, dirty. It hurt Myla somewhere deep in her soul to have to consider friendliness to be an auspicious thing, until she reminded herself that in this house, something as simple as a glance could rightly be interpreted as menacing. As a result, for each person who entered the house, smiled at her a little too wide, whose fingers would linger on her wrist during an introductory handshake, Myla found herself only able to wonder how many of them would gladly harm her if given the chance. This was simply the new reality she needed to adjust to.

The silver lining was that she managed to slip back into the old role that Edward so graciously urged her to take up without wanting to die. Pretending everything was fine and normal was not an easy task, but Myla pushed through.

Which would have been considered a massive success, except the sudden switch in behavior (abet to the type of behavior that he desired from her) made Oswald more suspicious of her than before. So Edward had really acted on his own, under a guise of friendly concern, and led Myla to an even bigger lurch. Wonderful.

Oswald set a box down next to her, jarring her out of her thoughts.

"What's that?"

"It's what you'll be wearing when we take my mother out for her birthday dinner." He gave the box a tap, indicating that he wanted her to look inside.

Myla lifted the corner of the box and saw black. Always black. "When's the dinner?"

"Saturday. Seven PM."

Well, there went her theater plans with Mace. "Alright." She closed the box back up and pushed it off to the side.

He pushed the box back toward her. "You really should make sure it fits."

"Oh, okay." She thought to point out how had never bought her anything that hadn't fit before, but she was supposed to be holding back on the backtalk. Myla picked up the box and went to the closet, placing it down on the chair she used to reach the higher shelves before fully removing the dress to inspect it.

The dress was beautiful. Of course it was. Oswald had the most particular and discerning tastes in clothes – every carefully-chosen piece in their closet was stylish, classic, sometimes eclectic, but above all things extremely well-made. Myla had grown more used to dressing this way than she ought have, and kept telling herself how odd it was going to be to go back to leggings and poly-blends when she resumed average life. It would happen eventually, whether she played nice with Oswald or not. She hung the dress up. The material was sheer and soft, and Myla couldn't help running her fingers over the beading and embroidery on the bodice that went down the skirt. In a way, it looked like a modern version of something his mother might wear, which she was sure was on purpose and probably what had prompted him to purchase it. Myla rummaged (well, looked, because the closet was far too organized to have to "rummage") around to find heels and the right sort of bra to go with the dress. She had definitely attained a somewhat cursory knowledge of fashion rules in the past few months. Thanks to the internet, she knew to put on underwear _after_ fastening stockings to a garter belt, that low or t-strap heels would go best with a vintage style of dress, and that Oswald wore and knotted ties considered too wide for his face and frame. Who says internet browsing is a waste of time?

The zipper got stuck on a seam. Figures. This likely meant he would take it back for something else.

But he would still want to see it anyway. Myla poked her head of the closet, seeing Oswald waiting on the edge of their bed, looking deep in thought. "I need you to zip me up."

He didn't respond at first, causing her to wonder if he was so consumed by his own musings that he didn't hear her, but after several moments he stood up and crossed the room. She gathered her hair over one shoulder while he pulled the zipper back down, and then up again. Slowly, though. So slowly that Myla could hear each individual click of the teeth as they interlocked together.

Oswald paused when he reached the point where the zipper had previously stuck, and suddenly spoke up. "What are you doing that for?"

"Doing what?" She asked.

"Fiddling with your hair like that."

Myla had hardly even noticed she was doing it. "Why? What does it matter?" She acted a bit more defensively than she should have.

"You only do that when you're nervous."

He was right. Myla quickly clasped her hands in front of her, as if it would change the fact that he had already noticed it.

"Not always." It was strange and a bit sickening to be reminded that even people who act oblivious or dismissive of the things about you – your interests, your feelings, your limited pain threshold – can still know so much about who you are, including the meaning or significance behind your habits. Although she guessed it needed to be that way. If he had treated her awfully from the start she wouldn't even be there, after all.

"Sure you do." His voice was calm, for once, as he pulled the zipper up the last couple inches. "You did it when you met me – a stranger, approaching you in an unknown place you weren't supposed to be at. And on our first date, because I was someone you were told not to speak to. You also did it on our second date, when you asked me if the rumors about me were true. You did it when you moved in with me, and that night you were trying to figure out whether I had killed that man, and dozens of other times over things like schoolwork….and you did it just now, the very instant I touched you."

"I didn't mean to."Myla said quietly.

"You didn't have to mean it." He responded starkly, for once sounding completely emotionless. Normally he would have sounded angry or at the very least greatly annoyed in a conversation like this, but instead he was completely blank. "Are you really that afraid of me now?"

Maybe it was just because she was so desperately searching for something, but she thought she heard a hint of smugness in his tone.

"No." She lied. Of course she was afraid of him. Oswald killed people – apparently sometimes just for kicks, out of rage. Who wouldn't be at least a little freaked out having someone like that touch them? To have to lie in bed with them every night? To feel like they're always searching for something to be angry at you for? He proved this last point by running his hand down her back, attempting to instigate another negative response from her.

Even though she couldn't see him, she could tell he wasn't buying it either. They both knew that Myla would probably never make a convincing liar. Oswald turned her around to look at him, searching her face. Lord only knows what sort of expression she had. What she felt and what she needed to show were so tangled up in each other that she wasn't even sure she knew how to properly convey what she was feeling anymore. It didn't appear to be anything too upsetting, though, and after a few brief moments of uncomfortable staring he bent down to kiss her. It wasn't warm or special, but it felt okay.

Oswald was already unzipping the dress. It didn't stick this time either.

"Only if you want to." He asserted, looking for some sort of acknowledgment, rather than to be reluctantly received. He wanted that validation from her again.

Myla hesitated as Oswald continued to stare at her expectantly, his hands on her shoulders, waiting for the okay to continue. It had been a while since he had been like this. She nodded, letting the fabric slide down her arms and fall around her waist, lips brushing against her collarbone.

On any given day, Oswald's hands were cold and strong; they pulled at her clothes and commanded her how to move for him. First it had been somewhat exciting, because everything about what they were doing was still new and fun, until it became something that was just sort of happening. It was one of those things that hadn't really mattered before, then one day it turned out it did. Myla knew she was too passive – she had always let things just sort of "happen" to her, eventually getting to a point where she saw no point in trying to change it, whether she was bothered by it or not. She had been taught that unless something proved absolutely detrimental to your livelihood, there was nothing wrong with suffering through it. Nothing is forever, after all. So far in life there had been remarkably little that she had felt was so terrible or unlivable that she needed to do anything serious about it, and even then the response was usually on the lines of mild passive aggression.

Today, his hands were warmer, softer. Overall, they felt much nicer on Myla's skin as they slipped her dress the rest of the way off and deftly removed her bra. Despite the way her heart was picking up speed, her actions were stiff and methodical compared to Oswald's as she helped him begin to undress.

It was amazing the change a few months could make. She could still remember the butterflies that used to be where the ball of stress and nerves now resided, and how beautiful she used to think his eyes were, how attractive it was when his hair would fall in front of them. Myla wished it weren't like this. The fact that she considered this as something that was just "happening" to her was arguably one of the most depressing things out of all of this. Although it was a tough choice considering her whole current state of mind was pretty depressing. They went to the bed. His silence was unusual – Oswald was nearly always talking, telling her what to do and how to do it. Myla waited to see whether this would last or he would switch gears and start being rougher, like he had been lately. He tugged on her hips until she was under him a bit more and kissed her again, arranged her legs around his waist before pushing into her.

He knew her body too. Well enough to where it didn't take long at all to make her cum, her slender fingers twisting into his hair while her core contracted around him. She felt so good he could hardly stand it, and it was almost painful to pull out of her. Oswald rolled off of her, shaking and satisfied as he used his palm to slick his hair back away from his face. Myla wordlessly got up and crossed the room to the hamper for a shirt to wipe off her stomach. After she did, she shoved it back deep into the hamper

How could everything feel so different, when nothing had changed.


	27. Chapter 27

As difficult as it is to psyche yourself up for an event you would rather not attend, it is that much worse when you've spent the day comfortably lounging around in yoga pants and un-brushed hair. Myla had spent a little over two days mentally preparing herself for the night ahead, but regrettably had not put together a pep talk that would get her off the bedroom floor. Because certainly nothing about tonight would be half as interesting as finding slightly discolored patches of spackle on the ceiling.

Rolling her head to the side, she looked over at Mace, who was texting on her phone. Mace had already informed her of the extra tickets when Myla said she wouldn't be going to the play, telling her to take Gertrud and Oswald instead and to "catch her back later". It was actually a pretty good plan. Oswald certainly thought it was nice, and it was a technically a "social" activity that wouldn't actually require Myla to be social with him or his mother at all. A proverbial win-win.

Out of desperation for a new distraction, a question suddenly popped into Myla's head.

"What's it like to kill someone?"

Mace glanced up from her phone. "Well fuck me, aren't you getting dark." She mumbled, then sighed, swinging her legs off the couch to sit up straighter. "Who do you want dead? I suppose I could throw you a freebie as long as it's not Penguin. Or his mom." She added, knowing Myla had spent nearly all day looking for excuses to skip Gertrud's birthday dinner.

"What? No. No one." Myla's doe eyes widened with an innocence which didn't at all match up to her inquiry. "I was just asking, I guess." The subject had been on her mind for quite some time. Everything around her seemed to thrive on murder, and she still couldn't manage to understand, well, why. Was it a purely motivated course of action? Or was there some deeper, darker allure to it?

"Okay." Mace said warily. "Well anyway, I'm not sure I should even touch this conversation."

"Why not?"

"It feels like a no-no."

Myla snorted. "A 'no-no'? Look who sounds like a narc now."

"What are you expecting? Me to tell you that being an assassin is like being called to the damn priesthood? It's something most people just sort of fall into."

And how did you 'fall into' it?" .

A far off look briefly crossed Maces' face, before she went back to her phone. "That's definitely not your business." She mumbled. Another tally on her list of untouchable topics.

That was a more uneventful conversation started than Myla anticipated. She finally got herself up from the floor, and almost made it to the closet, before talking a sharp detour to the bookshelves on the far side of the room. After taking a moment to half-glance at titles as if she actually planned to read any of them, she tried thinking of something else to talk about.

"So, Mace," Myla said slowly, almost deterred by Maces' low groan from across the room, "Mace, Mace, Mace...is that like, a name you chose, or earned, or what? Did your folks actually name you that?"

"Um, yeah, no. Irish Catholic folks stick to the basics, so they named me Margaret." Mace still sounded a little irritated, gaze still firmly planted on her phone's screen but was grateful that at least Myla was steering towards a different topic. "In school, I was 'Molly'. Then I started to working for Victor – young, inexperienced me, desperate to prove myself – and wouldn't you know it, Fish was the one who started calling me Mace, because of how 'in your face' I was. It was really something of an honor to get the nickname from her."

"Who's Fish?" Myla felt like she had heard the name in passing, but couldn't put a face to it.

"Fish? Fish Mooney?" Mace finally looked back up to stare at Myla in disbelief. "You don't know who Fish is?"

"Repeating her name isn't going to make me magically know who she is, that's for sure." Myla said dryly.

"Sorry." Mace shrugged. "Sometimes I forget that you're you're not really a part of...that stuff." By "that stuff" she meant "crime". "For starters, it's who 'was' Fish, because Penguin offed her."

"Ah." Myla shifted uncomfortably. "So who 'was' Fish?"

"She was a pretty big part of Falcone's crew..." Mace pursed her lips in annoyance when she saw the confusion on Myla's face again. "Seriously? Don't you know how Penguin got to where he is? Because he literally never stops talking about it to the rest of us. It's his signature bedtime story.

Falcone was the man who used to run things before Penguin took over, and Fish used to be Penguin's boss. He was her little servant umbrella boy."

Myla snorted again. The idea of Oswald as a "servant umbrella boy" was too ridiculous for her to even imagine.

"I'm dead serious, babe. Last year Penguin was a fucking nobody. When I say no one could have predicted that he would be running shit today, I mean it – no one would have ever guessed it in a million years."

Work was still something Oswald rarely discussed with her at length, so Myla wasn't at all surprised by her lack of knowledge on the origins of how Oswald paced his way to where he was now. She walked back to the loveseat and sat down next to Mace. "Tell me more."

Mace shook her head, smiling. "I wish I had a picture – or a video – because I feel like I can't do this story justice without showing you what he looked like. Picture Penguin in a bad haircut and a twenty dollar suit, looking like he's never seen the business end of a toothbrush in his life. Then add a stutter. And I mean a can't-even-string-a-sentence-together type of stutter. Just picture a grungy, pathetic mess of a man, and there you have it." Mace laughed. "Fish ate him up. It was a 'thing' of hers to take in these charity cases to work for her. Something about loyalty, dependance – and I'm sure there's a sad childhood backstory to go with it – but man, did it work." She took an uncharacteristically thoughtful pause. "Fish was really mothering underneath it all."

Myla was still trying to picture Oswald as the slovenly, stammering mess that Mace had so candidly described, but it was difficult, having only known him as deftly clever, impeccably dressed, and very well-spoken. It did appear that this tale would shed some light on a few previously unexplained traits and habits of his, but Myla still would have very much liked to see this more vulnerable version of him in the flesh.

"Like a mother, she was sort of...withholding. Making you work for it, you know? Everyone wants to stand out to mom, so there was always a lot of competition in Fishs' crew. Anywayyyy, last year she was out to take the city from Falcone - the guy who ran Gotham crime for decades." Mace reminded Myla. "Not a lot of people took her seriously, sexism and whatnot, but her odds were as good as any.

Cobblepot was the wrench in her machine. I guess the 'mom' schtick doesn't work on a guy who's already a major momma's boy." Mace watched Myla nod in agreement, both of them knowing the obsessively doting mother that Gertrud was. "She did actually catch Penguin – quicker than anyone else, anyway. Obviously Fish wasn't keen on being played, so she took a bat to Penguin's knee and sent him off to the docks to die."

This story was checking off everything Myla had ever been left to wonder about Oswald more rapidly than she could keep up with. "So, what, he escaped?"

"Don't interrupt the storyteller." Mace said crossly, then recollected herself. "And the answer is: sort of. This former softie cop that was supposed to make him eat a bullet spared him instead. Penguin came back, wormed his way into a rival family. Then it turned out he was playing spy for Falcone the who damn time. Then _that_ family found out, and he went back to Falcone, and _then_ brought Fish down. It was wild." Mace flashed a look. "A real shame, though – Fish was cool, but she waited too long for her chance." Fishs' aim had been to make an example of everyone on her way to the throne. It was a lovely thought, and definitely would have set a fine tone for how she would run things, but Fish put all her effort into setting the stage instead of putting on a show. Things slipped through the cracks. "Penguin outed her, and that's how he got her club."

That was probably how Myla had heard the name "Fish". That club she had met Oswald at used to belong to her. She was convinced that Jasmine mentioned something about her once or twice.

"Weeks go by, betrayal after betrayal builds up, and then, just like that," she snapped her fingers fingers in Myla's face, causing her to flinch, "almost everyone was either dead or gone, and Penguin was the last man standing. He set off the powder keg that made Falcone pack it in, Fish came back for like half a second to shoot Maroni before Penguin pushed off a building into the bay. It was the most blasphemous thing, but hey, the city was ready for fresh blood and action. That's what most of us thought of it."

"'Most of you'." Myla raised an eyebrow.

"Of course there were nay-sayers. There is actual order in the underworld - no one is supposed to jump from bitch boy strait to kingpin. Most of them came around, though."

"'Most of them'."

"You can probably guess what happened to the guys who didn't."

Sure. Guess. Myla had never really gotten a clear idea of what sort of things Oswald had done, but this conversation definitely...helped. "So..." Myla said slowly, "Basically, Oz just kind of came up and took over out of no where, huh?"

"Basically, yeah." Mace agreed. "The craziest thing is how no one knows how deep it goes. Like, was it a long-term scheme? Was the whole overly-nervous sycophant thing just an act? Did he just wake up one day and want to take over the world? No one knows."

Crazy indeed. Myla looked at the clock and sighed. She should have been ready by now. She got up from the couch and went to the closet, leaving the door open just a sliver so that she and Mace could still talk if they wanted.

"You know, Fish still has a following out here. Tons of people are convinced she'll be back." Mace pause. "She was pretty tough, and extremely dramatic...I guess some people consider those traits that would save you from drowning."

Myla poked her head out of the closet. "Do you want her to come back?"

Mace had to think about that for a moment. "No." She sounded sad. "I'd be happy to know she was alive, but no, I wouldn't want her coming back. I mean, I liked Fish and all, but my loyalty belongs to Victor, and Victor works for Penguin, and Penguin hates Fish...She'd be dead in a heartbeat if she stepped a toe in Gotham again. Number one threat and all."

Interesting. "Who are the other threats, you think?"

"Um...Jim Gordon would be one, I guess. The cop who was supposed to kill Penguin before." Mace informed her. "Thought you would at least know about him. Penguin thinks they're like, best buds or something. It's super weird."

Myla lightly bit down on the tip of her tongue. Mace would report on this conversation, that much she knew.

"Tell me about him. Jim Gordon."


	28. Chapter 28

Myla gave a lot of thought to Mace's stories over dinner with Oswald and his mother.

It was something she considered better to occupy her night with, as Gertrud hadn't warmed up to her in the slightest since their initial meeting on Christmas Eve. Oswald's presence didn't help change her attitude nearly as much as one would assume either, nor did the fact that they were out in public. There was a lot of loud, disproving talk of how essentially useless she thought Myla to be (fair enough), that seemed to grow considerably louder with every few sips of wine. Fortunately, Oswald had his limits – even when it came to his mother – eventually moving to rush things along.

Before that came to be, Myla listlessly pushed food around her plate while the other two spoke, ignoring the occasional verbal jab from Gertrud as best she could. Myla hadn't had much of an appetite lately, but she figured her reflections on Oswald's past career moved certainly weren't helping the cause. All she had to do was hold out until the play. Once they got to the playhouse, god willing there would be no conversation of any sort for at least a couple hours. She took another deep breath. This night couldn't last forever, even if Gertrud's broken, yet scathing phrases made it feel as though it just might.

But the play was something she had surprisingly approved of – accompanied by a moment of extreme skepticism when she heard Myla had set it up. Regardless, dinner had started off somewhat enjoyable while she spoke up the play's first run who knows how many decades ago. Maybe it had been enjoyable for longer, but Myla made a commitment to checking out pretty early on, because the potential for a nice evening out did not change the fact that she did not want to be there, with this deceitful man and his overprotective and dramatically disparaging mother. It wasn't nearly as difficult to keep her cool and remain polite as she had spent all day building it up to be, but it was a relief all the same when they made it to the playhouse. Myla reveled in the silence between the three of them once the curtain went up, allowing for a solid hour of drifting off. When it was time for intermission, she excused herself to the restroom, but Gertrud came with, of course. Because ladies shouldn't go to the bathroom alone.

Myla mumbled a quiet pep talk to herself in the mirror while she washed her hands a third time. Ninety minutes. Just ninety. That was nothing. How many time had she sat down for a minute, looked back up, and some ridiculous amount of time had passed? Wait – they had to drop off Gertrud too. And what if she wanted to get coffee or something first? Damn. This night really could go on forever.

She suddenly noticed Gertrud behind her and went silent, straitening herself out while she grabbed a towel. "What is that?" Gertrud pointed at Myla.

Assuming Gertrud mean "was that", as a way of pointing out the way she had been talking to herself, Myla tried to act as if she didn't know what she was talking about."What's what?"

The woman walked a few steps closet to her. "That." She pointed more clearly now at Myla's stomach.

"Oh, you're saying the dress makes me look fat?" Myla asked. Definitely not the sort of criticism she expected – Gertrud had seemed above fat comments, at least. She guessed the material did drape a bit oddly around her hips. Maybe that was throwing Gertrud off.

Gertrud shook her head, looking annoyed. "You're pregnant, aren't you?" Her expression turned pained – like she wanted to be happy, but it was more important to keep up with the trend of remaining rude to Myla.

Well, that was certainly out of left field. There were many, many things Myla was currently worried about, but she never considered pregnancy as one of them. "No, it's just the dress." She swooshed the dress around her, as if the somehow made the point.

"No, no, no, no, no…."Gertud tutted, shaking her head some more.

This wasn't a topic Myla had any interest in arguing in a theater bathroom with Oswald's buzzed mother. "You know what? Intermission is probably just about wrapped up. We should probably get back to Oz – Oswald. Your son. Yeah."She linked her arm with Gertrud's and led her out, making a few comments to her about the play as they weaved through the crowd and back into the auditorium, hoping she might get distracted from her ridiculous pregnancy accusation.

It seemed to work. Gertrud brought up a minor complaint about some difference she noticed from the first time she saw it, which Myla encouraged, and by all rights their short conversation appeared to be out of her head by the time they got back to their seats, just in time for the play to start up again. Myla was fairly confident that Gertrud would forget all about the silly question she had asked her by the time the show was through.

Until she looked over, and saw Gertrud tugging on Oswald's sleeve.

Myla froze, filled with a dreaded sense of panic as she watched the woman whisper something in her son's ear. Somehow, even in the semi-darkness, his already sallow complexion seemed to turn paler. She patted his shoulder and smiled at him, earning a tight-lipped smile from him in return before she turned back to the stage. Oswald's eyes flicked over to Myla for a moment, looking equal parts stunned and confused.

There was a scene from a movie Myla was reminded of. A man had seen his true love. Time had stopped completely for him in that moment, only for it to suddenly speed up in order to realign with normal time before he could meet her.

The rest of the play felt exactly like that, except far, far less magical. Oswald's glance felt more like an eternal stare, and then, suddenly the curtain was dropping, lights were on, and it was time to leave. Myla swore she had just sat back down, only to be immediately ushered outside.

The drive home was the most tense yet – and there was considerable competition when it came to tense drives to and from the city. Myla knew Gertud had put the thought that she was pregnant in his head. Wonderful. It wasn't like she had been looking forward to putting on sweats and going to bed once they got home or anything.

There had to be a way to nip this in the bud.

Her birth control – that was something. Myla waited in the car while Oswald walked Gertrud up to the apartment, digging through her purse until she located the pack of pills she had started that month. She was two days into the placebo's, which meant she would get her period...tomorrow? At least she hadn't missed any of the regular ones. There was even an alarm set on her phone to make sure she took them at the same time each day. There was one she had taken about hour late one time, but so what? Jasmine would sometimes forget to take hers for two days at a time and it didn't seem to be a huge deal. Plus they were using condoms now. Well, mostly. Solid seven out of ten. Maybe six. And he pulled out when they didn't. Usually. Half the time.

The point was, these pills had to be good for proving something.

And the bigger point was the Gertrud was just...weird. Kind of a lush. Also, she really, really didn't like Myla. Wait – that made it weirder. Why someone would tell a girl they borderline hate that she was pregnant with their grandchild? Myla was a little lost about that, but there was probably some reason. Some odd reason probably meant to screw things up. Maybe Gertrude was just being a pot-stirrer.

Myla dropped the pills back into her bag when she noticed Oswald had reappeared on the sidewalk. He climbed into the car and stared out the window. She tried to think of something to say that would deter him from bringing up what she was sure Gertud had told him, but it was double-edged sword. On one side there was an augment over how she would come off as if she thought his mother was an alcoholic looney, the other the inevitable conversation about pregnancy. "Are you pregnant?" and "How did this happen?" were just a sampling of the lines Myla predicted would come up once at home. She weighed the chances of whether she would die or be severely injured if she opened the car door and rolled out like in the movies.

How did she even feel about kids? Had she even really thought about it? _Really_ thought about it? When Myla thought about the future, it did usually involve a child or two, but did she _want_ them, or had they always just been there to represent the fulfillment of an average life step? How did Oswald feel about them? Myla remembered hearing something to the effect of Gertud wanting him to give her grandchildren, but it wasn't anything he was rushing out to do. Vague enough to imply that it didn't mean he wouldn't _ever_ want them, while at the same time not at all clear on what he thought about having children of his own.

Why was she even entertaining these thoughts when she knew she wasn't pregnant? She would be damned if those pills hadn't done their job. It was literally their only job.

She rested her head on the window, her vision slipping out of focus so all the lights they passed looked like fuzzy, glowing orbs. Just about every ride home Myla took back from town always managed to feel like the longest ride ever, and this was no exception. As the streetlamps grew further apart and eventually gave way to the narrow, tree-lined lane that led to home, she started to wish that the trip was actually never-ending. It wasn't, of course. Gabe parked. They all got out. Myla attempted to keep a good ten feet of distance behind Oswald, but he waited for her at the door, and grabbed her wrist once they were inside to keep her from walking off and avoiding him. Reluctantly, she let him lead her to their room.

The door shutting behind them was the loudest noise she had ever heard in her life.

Myla braced herself. For panic, maybe some yelling, perhaps even a cheating accusation. Something. Anything. Instead he just stood there and stared at her. Speechless Oswald – how incredibly, endearingly uncharacteristic. After what Myla was sure must have been several agonizingly slow minutes, Oswald started crossing the room, each step against the hardwood a resounding slap throughout the room, until he stood directly in front of her. _Here it comes_ , she thought to herself. She clenched her jaw and held her breath.

Oswald sank to his knees, an action Myla was sure had been incredibly painful with his injury, but he looked completely unfazed, wrapping his arms around her waist tightly and pressing the side of his face against her belly. It would have very sweet, if it wasn't so entirely unwanted.

"For fu-Oz, I'm not..." Myla was too uncomfortable to finish the sentence.

"Mother wouldn't tell me if she thought she was wrong." Oswald said softly. His mother was rarely ever wrong.

Not exactly an inspiring phrase, considering anyone's odds of being right in most cases is basically fifty-fifty.

He almost sounded like he was crying, or close it it, making the situation that much more mortifying for Myla. This must have been how Mace felt when she had to witness her complete breakdown in the car. It was not pleasant, to say the least.

"So, _if_ I am," Myla was sure to enunciate the "if", "what will happen?" What she really wanted to know was if it would change things at all. Would he treat her differently. Better, like before, though she would have to experience them to believe it.

"Well, uh," he was still awkwardly speaking into her flat stomach, "I suppose a doctor would be the first order of business, right?"

No the answer she wanted to hear. "Right, right." Myla replied stiffly. "Could you just...maybe stand up? Please?"

He did, slowly and with mild difficulty. Myla was relieved to see that he hadn't actually been crying, but instead was, in the words of her godfather, "misty-eyed".

"So." Myla clasped her hands in front of her, and pressed her fingers to her lips as she thought of how to bring this down without being completely insensitive. "If I'm not...I mean, I'm probably not, because birth control and all that. So. I. Just." She bit her tongue. "I don't want you guys getting worked up over it before we know...for sure."

"That's fair." Oswald agreed. "Completely fair, but," he unclasped Myla's hands to hold them in his, "I am very sure about this."

Oswald smiled at her, and Myla did her best to return it, knowing it likely didn't appear genuine. He was actually okay with this.

He was going to be disappointed, and then, he would want to try.

And Myla couldn't have that.


	29. Chapter 29

Myla had stress in spades. She had recently started new medication, was considerably less active than usual, definitely hadn't been eating well, and had found herself feeling very ill and depressed most days. Any of those things on their own can contribute to a late period - even if one of those things was something meant to regulate it in the first place.

However, the most common reason for lateness has been and will always be pregnancy.

The last placebo from her first round of birth control sat untouched in its tiny plastic pocket, mocking her. Telling her that there was no more opportunity for her to stay in denial. Oswald had already made her an appointment for later that day, the only means of avoiding it was to start bleeding sometime in the next twelve hours, but it seemed very unlikely at this juncture. Myla repositioned her gaze to the box of pregnancy tests that were bought the morning after Gertrud's birthday dinner. They were the kind that simply read "pregnant" or "not pregnant" when you took them. How neat. Where had those been during all the times she had played the game of "is that a line?" with her cousin and friends back in high school? After glancing around (as if someone might have been hiding in their bathroom at this hour), Myla shut the door and opened the box.

There was an instruction pamphlet inside. She always thought it seem like a weird thing to have to include instructions with. They were pregnancy tests. You peed on them. How much direction could one need just to be told to pee on a piece of plastic and wait a minute or two?

Except these ones were some special type of test. In addition to the whole "pregnant" and "not pregnant" result, there was apparently also a "dud" one where a book would show on the little screen, which would prompt her to read an actual troubleshoot section, along with advice to research fertility issues and talk to a doctor. There was also, apparently, an "ideal" time of day to test. Myla had long missed that window, but maybe that meant she would have a shot at a false negative, allowing her to reject the idea of pregnancy for another day or two. If she went in a cup she could effectively take all three in the box at once. Oswald and Gertrud would HAVE to shut up if faced with three negative tests.

That's exactly what she did, laying them down on a towel afterward to wait out the suggested two minutes. She figured she would use that time to brush her teeth or something, but when she glanced back down at the tests, they already read "pregnant". All three of them. After no more than twenty seconds.

Absolutely unreal.

The room seemed to spin for a second. It was possible, of course it always was, but she had been so sure. So sure.

With her breathing becoming heavy and ragged, Myla snatched her birth control off the counter. She was preparing to scream at a nearly-empty pack of pills in the bathroom at three in the morning. This was a nightmare. She tried her best to collect herself as she swept the tests back into their box and tossed it in the trash along with the last placebo. Why bother hiding it. Oswald would know. He always knew. He always found out everything. Hell, he found out she was pregnant almost a week before she even believed it. She still couldn't believe it.

Myla sank to the floor, glaring at the trashcan, cursing its contents. Like it would solve anything at all, or do anything to make her feel better. Of course it wouldn't – she knew that – but it wasn't as if she had many options as far as working out her feelings went. She kicked the trashcan. Not so hard that it tipped over, but it made a half-satisfying smacking sound against the wall behind it.

It would have to do for now.

* * *

Doctor Harold Sheldrew spoke in a nasal English accent, and Myla noticed upon his self-introduction that his s' were slightly punctuated by whistling sounds. He seemed like a nice enough man, but that's usually what she thought about most people, and lately she had been very wrong about that sense. The fact that he and Oswald appeared so familiar with one another did nothing to reverse the suspicion, even though Myla was aware that Oswald must have many friends and acquaintances who weren't necessarily crime associates and accomplices.

Once they were done with the simple round of "how are you" s, Harold loudly proclaimed, "I hear congratulations are in order. Yes, very exciting for you and Miss…?"

The congratulations felt like more of a slap than anything, but she faked a decent half-smile and introduced herself. "Myla."

"Myla. Very pretty name, very pretty girl. Good job Oswald." He winked and Myla wanted to die on the spot. "I've been a good family friend for years and years," Harold explained to Myla, "and I can't tell you what lovely news it is to hear he's beginning to settle down. Please, sit, sit, The both of you." He picked up the clipboard holding the paper Myla had filled out while they waited, taking a moment to glance through the information.

"Well, I can tell you right now from this short form you filled out for me that you would only be about four weeks along, maybe five – sort of hard to pin down the date of conception when it happens on the pill, you know. Anyway, detecting heartbeats is kind of hit and miss at this time – I'd hate to throw you into a panic if I were unable to locate it – and I prefer not to do sonograms before eight weeks, so for now we'll ask some questions and draw some blood, just to get things moving along.

Myla felt very relieved to hear that. She was no where near emotionally ready to hear or witness the physical proof that there was a person beginning to grow inside of her.

"I just want to start this off by telling you that I do no appreciate unclear answers." He said, with a sudden and surprising sternness. "'I don't know' has been the absolute scourge of my career, so I beg of you, please give a direct 'yes' or 'no', and if you well and truly don't know, consider saying something like 'I'll find out'."

"Okay."

"Do you know your blood type?"

"O negative. Rh-positive."

"Good. That saves us a phial. Oswald is A positive. I used to joke that he got an A plus for hematology and, believe it or not, every now and again it does still manage to be funny."

Myla smiled weakly. Whether he was being jokey or serious, this doctor was much chattier than she would have preferred.

"Gertrud mentioned that you grew up without parents, is that true?"

The question caught Myla off guard. Because shouldn't he be asking her things like whether she was vomiting or having back pain? "Yes."

"Please understand I'm not at all asking to pry, but I would like to know if their absence has resulted in any lack of knowledge about your family medical history?"

If that were the case, Myla wondered why he didn't just simply ask if she knew about her family's medical history. Anyone – especially a professional – should be able to ask someone a family-related question or two without bringing in the "your parents are dead" brigade. Now this appointment just felt uncomfortable. Or rather, more uncomfortable. No matter how limited her memories of them were, it still put Myla in a very off mood when her parents were brought up in ways like that. "I know what I need to know. I was still raised by family, just not...the two."

Harold nodded sympathetically before checking through a lengthy list of hereditary diseases, mental illnesses, cancers. Had she been pregnant before? Was she up on vaccinations? Did she drink? Smoke? Snort cocaine, etc? Myla didn't really have anything to say yes to until they reached allergies. She was allergic to macadamia nuts, which was probably one of the better nut allergies to have because they aren't terribly popular. It wasn't even very severe anyway – she had actually been told before that if she ate them regularly, eventually the effects from eating them would subside into basically nothing. However, Myla wasn't so desperate to have macadamia's that she was willing to put up with hours of hives and itchy mouth until it "probably" stopped happening.

Then came the more general questions she had expected. How was she feeling? Was she experiencing any symptoms like x, y, or z? Myla made a brief point to talk about how absolutely normal she felt, as if it might to prompt him to suggest the positives were a fluke and this was all the result of her birth control messing with her body. No such luck. Instead he told her it was normal for some women to not gain pregnancy symptoms for several weeks. Also the fact the tests turned positive so quickly was "a very excellent sign". Something about strong hormone levels and attachment – she had sort of tuned him out.

"Well you certainly appear to be in very good health, Myla." With the questionnaire over, Harold set his clipboard down on the counter and pulled over the wheeled metal tray that held all the plastic phials for blood testing. There were quite a few, but Myla wasn't nervous. Once you donate blood as an O negative, Red Cross is always after you. For a while she had donated every week just so they would stop calling the apartment.

Myla flinched when she felt Oswald's hand on her thigh, but not when the doctor pushed the needle into the crook of her arm. She watched calmly as each of the phials – six in total – quickly filled up.

"This is about all we can do for now." Harold pulled out the needle and secured a cotton ball over the spot it left with a band-aid. "Go ahead and make an appointment up front for...three weeks from now, that should be fine. At that time we can find a heartbeat and measure the fetus. The good stuff, you know, but I should say you two have a lot more to look forward to come Christmastime."

Christmas. That was almost ironic. Last Christmas, Myla should have stayed at home, celebrating the Kozak Family Christmas Pajama Jam, drinking homemade cocoa and watching Elf. She should had left Oswald's gift under the mattress or perhaps put in the garbage and stuffed her guilt in with it. A few days later she would move into that nice apartment with Jasmine and keep the job that she loved and finish her degree. Oswald Cobblepot would have simply became the story of that strange older man she had dated for a short time before she bit him and then never saw again. Instead she sneaked out to apologize to him. A week later it was him she was moving in with. And now she was here, trying to ignore the way he was squeezing her hand as they listened to an overly-talkative doctor manage to weave "make sure you take your prenatal vitamins" into a short essay.

Myla rose up from her seat and stalked out the door the second Dr. Sheldrew said it was nice to meet her, leaving Oswald behind to make the next appointment. That would allow her to have a short cry in the elevator and then have her feelings reigned back in by the time he joined her in the car. She still didn't know how Oswald was handling this so well but she couldn't. He didn't seem _happy_ about it, but it was still something vaguely positive, which was miles ahead of how she felt.

She repeatedly jammed down the button for the bottom floor, already feeling her eyes pricking with the start of angry, confused tears.

This would have to do.

It had to do. For now.


	30. Chapter 30

"Peculiar boy" and "odd one out" were among the few nicer phrases that had followed Oswald when he was young, but he considered all manner of descriptions about him to have contributed to the idea that he wouldn't have children. He felt that any child of his ran the risk of being subjected to the same childhood torments, and wasn't sure he could shoulder the tasks that accompany a frail, bullied child with nearly as much grace as his mother had. It truly was a wonder that Oswald grew up to be even half as confident as he was.

Even now, as fatherhood was becoming a fast-approaching reality, as opposed to an abstract thought, he had a great many doubts in his ability to parent.

Thinking about his mother again made him feel a little better about it, at least. How happy and proud she looked as she told him what a good man he was, and what a wonderful father he was going to make. Though, at the time, Oswald had never felt more guilty and unclean in his entire life to hear her say those things – and he was willing to admit he had done a lot to feel guilty and unclean for. Still, it had been very encouraging, to where he felt able to provide Myla with what he had hoped was a loving show of support adequate enough to mask his true feelings of sickening negativity and nervousness. Ultimately, she had rejected the gesture, but Oswald knew she would have rejected an outburst fear or anger just as well.

He didn't think of himself as someone who wanted kids. They were sometimes cute and pleasant, but Oswald saw himself in more of strange uncle or eccentric mentor position. One could argue that if he really hadn't wanted a child of his own, then he should have been more careful. He meant to be – he wanted to be – but that all means nothing when you're a selfish ass faced with the decision of pleasure over responsibility. Oswald had been quietly relieved when Myla stepped up to enforce protection, even if she wasn't always consistent with it. It was more than what he was doing about it, after all.

Had Myla not wanted children? He couldn't say. The topic had never really come up, save for the brief moment in the coffee shop where he was forced to improvise some weak, dodgy response to get it off the table. So far, it didn't seem like she did. Myla spent the last week going to some pretty impressive lengths to avoid him, to the point where Oswald thought to have Mace surprise her with the doctors visit. Fortunately, she became a touch more reasonable after he caught her crying on the bathroom floor at three AM, repeatedly kicking the trashcan later found to contain the used pregnancy tests. All positive. A great start to the day.

But, Lord, that appointment. Myla's shell-shocked expression in the doctors office. Her hand completely limp in his while she refused to even glance his way the entire time. Oswald couldn't imagine what Harold had thought about seeing them like that. The man was far too polite to say anything about it, of course, but that alone didn't make the experience any less strained or awkward.

There had to be something he could do about her. Not just her behavior, but clearly she soon need to be put someplace safer. Sending his pregnant girlfriend off to a safe place felt like the right course of action for someone in his line of business, but it seemed wrong. Shouldn't he be present for...things? Not to mention that setting a pregnant Myla up in a safehouse required a tremendous amount of trust in a select few people, of which he had none to spare. That left one very extreme option available. Obviously, a decision needed to be made in a timely manner. How soon until her pregnancy became noticeable? Weeks? Months? Although, it wasn't as if she appeared pregnant now, yet it was clear to his mother from a glance.

Oswald wasn't sure how long he had been ignoring the knocking at the door for, but judging by the short, impatient raps coming from the other side, he guessed it must have been a while.

"Would you just come in already?" Oswald called out.

Rather than Butch or Gabriel, in walked Terrence. It was an unusual, and currently unwelcome shift from familiarity.

The best way to describe Terrence was that he looked like a magic school dropout, or perhaps a character from a Japanese video game. His hair was dark and shaved on the sides but bright blonde and messy up top. He wore eyeliner, he had an earring, and his clothes were very...strappy. Ridiculous looks aside, he was incredibly charismatic – a trait which worked very well for him as a dealer. Currently the most profitable dealer in Oswald's stock.

The attitude the boy carried about him was something Oswald had difficulty stomaching, though. It was a sort of bubbly showmanship that shone through no matter what Terrence was talking about. Whether the topic at hand was different brands of bubblegum, or the heroin he sold, there was always a level of unwavering enthusiasm to accompany it.

Terrence cocked his head to the side, smiling. Like a dog. "Why so glum, boss?"

Oswald remained expressionless, but inside he was wondering just who the _hell_ let this imbecile in? "That's getting a little personal, Terrence." He hissed out the last syllable of the name.

The boy shrugged, kicking the door shut behind him. "I just thought that this was, you know, a special time for you."

"What?" Oswald found himself both annoyed and incredibly bothered by Terrence's smile. It looked almost unnaturally wide. Cartoon-ish.

"First kid." Terrence continued casually. "That is definitely something special."

It took a second or two for the words to really affect Oswald. It was like being hit with a bucket of ice water in slow motion. How did he know? How did this idiot find out?

"Don't tell me you haven't told anyone." Terrence put his hand over his mouth, making a mocking gasp. "Mr. Cobblepot! If I didn't know better, I would think you didn't want anyone to know."

This was where Oswald somehow managed to resent Terrence even more. Quirky appearances and overall annoying demeanor aside, harping on about about besting your opposer was incredibly tactless.

Satisfied with his display of faux surprise, Terrence assumed a slightly more serious form. Only slightly. "Now, I know what you're thinking..."

"Do you now?" Oswald's voice came out sharp and acidic.

"I think I do, sir. You're thinking 'I should kill this jackoff on the spot'."

Well, he wasn't wrong, but Oswald bit his tongue.

"So, I guess I should start off by telling you that wouldn't be smart." The boy chuckled. "I have other guys in with me on this – they know I'm here and everything - and if I don't show up in the next couple hours, they'll spread the news of your bundle around the city, and well, good luck keeping her safe if that happens. You really should've tried to make less enemies, man."

"What is it that you want?"

Terrence resumed the disturbing grin he had displayed before. "I want to be higher on the chain, Penguin. Running the good shit. More money. Lower tariffs. That sort of deal."

Oswald's jaw shifted while he considered his next move. "Sure." It was something of a struggle to make sure he sounded defeated rather than sarcastic. "I trust your buddies will want to be present, to make it more official."

"You really think I'm an idiot, don't you?" Darkness appeared in those boyish looks, as Terrence's face hardened. "Can't knock you for trying, but I'm not giving you time to find a loophole, or to set that nightmare Zsasz on us. I want wheels in motion right now. This offer expires to-night." He tapped his finger on the table.

Oswald didn't have time for this. Fuck, there was just no time for this. "Very well," he mumbled. He opened a drawer in his desk, catching Terrence's smug smirk out of the corner of his eye as his hand enclosed the handle of the pistol he kept hidden in the false bottom.

There was a sudden flash and bang. Oswald hardly even flinched from the kickback as he shot Terrence in the abdomen. Sighing deeply, Oswald rose from his seat. "Fools often dream of being kings, Terrence," he knelt down in front of the boys chair, "but, I would say in your case, the fool is simply a fool." Terrence was still alive, staring down at his would in silent horror. "Your team stands to benefit from this situation whether or not you're alive, but I'm willing to bet they'll think better of it after they find you.

Really, Terrence, what made you think this would work out for you? I have done worse over less – you know it, you've seen it – but somehow you really thought you could strut in here and threaten..." Oswald stopped, unable to say the words "my child" or "my family". He still couldn't quite process the reality of those things at the moment. "Actually, no, don't answer that. Instead, I need you to concentrate. Concentrate almost as hard as you're concentrating on keeping your intestines from falling out, Terrence, and give me the names of the others."

"Fuck, dude...there are no others. Why would I want to split on a prime deal like this?" Terrence's bright and bubbly voice was now barely more than a hoarse whisper. "I followed your girl for weeks, just waiting for her to wander away from Victor's Pink Lady, so I could..." He made a gunshot motion with his hand.

"You were going to kill Myla?" Oswald scoffed. "For what?

"Misdirection." Terrence's breathing was quickly becoming more labored. "I figured you would jump on the conspiracy bandwagon, and I'd be freed up to make some cash I wouldn't have to report.

But I didn't want anyone to know I was planning...anything." He tried to push himself up, as if sitting straighter would make the process of bleeding out less painful. "I followed you guys to that...office...then I, uh, followed that doctor when he went to lunch. All I did was say your name, and he told me you were gonna be daddy. Chatty guy, that doc." He chuckled, only to be thrown into a violent fit of coughing. Oswald dodged blood-tinged spit as it flew onto the desk.

Condemned man are honest men – that saying had rang true for Oswald time and time again. Terrence was going to die. He knew he was going to die, and Oswald knew that Terrence did not have the fortitude to withhold information under this level of duress. If he had really had a team, he would have at least teased with something cheeky, like "you'll find out".

"I believe you." Oswald said quietly.

"Thanks. Thank you, Penguin. No hard feelings, right?" Terrence whimpered.

Under any other circumstance, Oswald would have laughed, and made Terrence's' world a hell on earth - but there was just no time. Every second he was alive was an opportunity for word about to get out. Terrence closed his eyes as Oswald jammed the muzzle of the gun into his mouth.

"You deserve worse." He said solemnly.

The most unfortunate thing about shooting somewhat at such close range was what followed – not just the inevitable, lengthy cleanup process, but the fact that scorched flesh is undoubtedly one of the least fortunate smells to experience.

Beyond the stench, Oswald found himself unable to obtain that pleased feeling that usually followed a situation like this. His secret was safe, a traitorous, weak link was dead. He didn't expect to still feel so angry. Was this the thing parents talk about? That special sort of protectiveness? It was different. Less obligatory than the protectiveness he felt for his mother.

He didn't dwell on it for long. There were more important things at hand. Apparently he had less time than he thought to set something in motion that would keep Myla safe. And he needed to have a talk with Harold. A very firm talk.

But before he could even thing about handling all that, Oswald needed something to calm himself down. He turned to the body in the chair.

Maybe he didn't need to dispose of Terrence quite so quickly.


	31. Chapter 31

Oswald always had a way of keeping up his appearance. It was something that Myla had especially come to appreciate after the truth came out, as it made it easier for her to feign some level of blissful unawareness of his more sinister activities as Penguin. She would see him, looking so well-dressed and composed, and imagine that he spent his days behind a desk in a corner office somewhere. That painfully average fantasy was all too easy to conjure up nowadays, when she was reminded otherwise. The longer she avoided the specifics of the bad he was involved in, the better.

However Myla would always remember, with vivid clarity, the first time she saw blood on his collar.

The ensuing scene revealed itself to her like a picture sliding into focus. The smeared remnants of red on his face and neck, like streaks on a mirror. His jacket appeared heavy and wet, the cuffs of his usually pristine shirt were drenched in color.

It was certainly a jarring sight, but strangely enough, it wasn't nearly as horrifying as Myla had always assumed this moment would be. Something in Myla clicked the moment she finally saw him like that – seeing the tangible form of everything terrible she every had heard about Oswald standing in front of her – and she found herself filled with an almost ethereal sense of something. Perhaps this was peace. She went to the closet to get him some clean clothes, setting them on the edge of the bed. For whatever reason, she was convinced that this new, wonderfully calm feeling could be maintained by not looking up at him, putting all her concentration into using only the tips of her fingers to remove his jacket. It was even heavier than she thought, but Myla tried not to think about why.

Was there a protocol for this? Some special laundry chute for "murder evidence" clothing?

The vest was next to join the jacket on the floor, even though it looked relatively stain free. She took off his tie and slipped the suspenders off his shoulders. The shirt sported spots mostly, until it got to the elbows. From there the soaked fabric clung to his forearms, making a sticky sort of noise as she peeled it off. His pants looked clean enough.

Of course, there was nothing about this process that could change what she saw, but that didn't matter. As long as the illusion was there, it didn't matter. Myla felt inexplicably better once she had Oswald buttoned up in a crisp, white shirt. And then a bit lost again, when she noticed his hands, the thin veins of rust embedded in the crevices of his palms and knuckles, under his nails and in the ridges of his fingerprints. It suddenly dawned on her how much smarter it would have been to stick him in the shower first. Oh well.

Several minutes after he had entered the room, Oswald spoke.

"We need to talk."

An austere phrase to hear in just about any situation, but, for obvious reasons, was perceived to be considerably worse coming from a man who entered the room in bloodied clothes.

"Okay." Myla's voice came out sounding meek, but otherwise smooth.

"Who have you told?"

That was terribly unspecific. "Told about what?"

"The baby." Oswald clarified. "Who have you talked to about the baby."

Had Myla felt more up for a show of sass, now would have been the perfect moment for her to roll her eyes, but even that distant desire vanished when she finally looked up at his face. His expression wasn't exactly one of fear, but it was a mix of it, the result of which was something she couldn't quite put a name to. That in itself was unsettling for her at best.

"No one." Myla answered plainly, skipping the previous urge to be sarcastic and ask who she had to tell.

"Not your family?" He pressed on. "Jen? Mace?"

Jen and her family weren't exactly present in her life at the moment, though Myla had already began prepping herself for the stunned and disappointed reactions from them when they eventually found out. Myla had felt Mace wasn't the best person to tell about her pregnancy, and so she didn't.

"No."

The expression that Myla couldn't name softened a little. "Very good...Keep it that way, please."

Please. What a rare word to hear from him. This conversation was getting more serious by the minute.

"Are you...okay?" Myla didn't know why she asked such a dumb question. It was all she could think to say, and she immediately regretted it. She almost attempted to cover it up with asking if he was hurt at all, until she remembered that she had half-undressed him and he obviously was not.

"Not particularly, no." Oswald answered dryly.

"Right..." Myla started awkwardly glancing around the room. "Well, I was I was about to go to bed, so…"

Oswald's hand reached out to hers first, and that wet, slightly sticky feeling she had tried so hard to avoid earlier was now on her palm.

"Not yet." Bit by bit, his voice was starting to return to its usual sharpness. "There's something I'd like to show you first."

Myla didn't have it in her to give a "no thanks" or "maybe later". There wasn't time to respond anyway, before he pulled her out the door.

The house had never felt so still. There was no noise at all – no usual chatting coming out of the kitchen, no footsteps in the foyer. For a moment Myla had to wonder if everyone was dead. Oswald's solemn demeanor and previous appearance certainly fit the description of someone who might have just killed a dozen men. After a thought like that Myla supposed she should be more nervous about where he was leading her, but honestly she didn't feel quite entirely...present. As if every function that wasn't breathing or walking felt switched off. She was along for the ride, as it were. Something about tonight had released some untapped resource of nihilism, but Myla would be lying if she said the sudden lack of caring wasn't a welcome relief from all she had been feeling.

Now they were in another room. A moment later it registered to her as the study. She didn't remember walking down the stairs. Oswald let go of her hand and she wiped it off on her skirt.

He walked to the wall just past the desk. A couple times he appeared to reach for something, only to pull his hand back. Oswald went to draw out his knife, before remembering it was in the jacket that was now on their bedroom floor. The letter opener would do fine. He dragged the tip of it along the wall, until he finally noticed the crevice that was just slightly wider than other spaces between panels, wedging the thin blade inside of it and jerking the handle down. There was a click, and a subtle vibration as the section of floor next to him shifted and opened, revealing a narrow set of stairs. Myla put up the same nonexistent resistance as she had before, allowing herself to be led into the dim stairwell. Of course there was a secret passageway here. Why wouldn't there be? Maybe it even led to a speakeasy. After the stairs was just a long, concrete hallway. Eventually that led to an impressive-looking metal door. Once they reached the door, Oswald procured a series of small metal rods from his pants pocket and set about fiddling with what Myla guessed were the "locks". Whatever he was doing with them certainly appeared to be a process.

Myla shifted from one foot to the other while she waited, the concrete floor freezing against her stocking feet. For a moment, she found herself convinced that there was definitely a torture room on the other side of the strange door, and perhaps whatever's – whomever's – blood Oswald had been covered in was still in there. But between the awkward hesitance of opening the passage, and the longer it took him to open it, the more she suspected that he had scarcely been down here at all. What would be the point of a secret torture room for him anyway? Of showing such a room to her? Her glimpse at the aftermath of his deed was likely more than enough. Not to mention it didn't exactly tie in with the concern about their "baby" he had demonstrated when he walked in. Well, thank goodness she had the time to think that out before she made herself look paranoid in front of the bloody man.

A loud clunking noise knocked Myla back to the present. Oswald was re-pocketing the rods and went to push the door. Her nails dug into her palm. Inside was…

An apartment.

Hm. Kind of unexpected, but pretty neat nonetheless. They had come to it through a secret tunnel underneath a mansion, after all.

Still, a bit anti-climatic, even if it was a cute, well-decorated little space. Very quaint, unlike the dark and dreary vibe Oswald had set up in the house. Myla walked a few steps into the room, looking around while Oswald re-secured the room behind them.

"What's this place for?" She asked.

Oswald shrugged. Fancy panic room, secret leisure room – though likely both – either way, no one else knew it was there. Carmine was a man who appreciated solace, creating a few well-hidden nooks for himself that only a few men were privy to know the location of. Victor was the only living member of that particular inner circle, but Oswald didn't mind if Victor knew. Victor was trustworthy and unbreakable.

Whatever the room's original intention was, it was nicely set up. There were books and records, comfy chairs and a well-stocked pantry. Oswald had already gleaned this room for weapons – of course there had been weapons – but overall he was hoping it would be a good place to keep Myla hidden for a while, if it ever came to that. For now, he watched as Myla opened each of the four other doors – leading to the bedroom, a bathroom, a closet, and the aforementioned pantry, respectively. She lingered in the closet for a moment or two, noting the washer and dryer, and then staring at the clothes that still hung there, knowing they had belonged to someone else. That this house was something taken.

"So, why are we here?"

Oswald's mouth felt dry as his mind raced to find a suitable excuse. She wasn't at all responding to this situation in the way he assumed. A bloody knife – a mere hint at the sort of things he had done – practically gave her a heart attack, but nothing about the night's events appeared to be affecting her.

"I'd like you to stay down here for...a few days." He waited patiently for the panicky questions, but they didn't come.

"A few days..." She repeated blankly.

"Right." He said slowly, still expecting something more out of her. "There are certain things that need to be taken care of that you need to be...out of the way for."

Ah, so it was danger, then. Someone coming to "wreck her world for the fun of it", just like Butch had said. "I see." There were a lot of the same books down here as there were downstairs. Must have been favorites of that guy who lived here before. Myla walked past the shelves to the "windows" on the other end of the room. Obviously they couldn't lead outside, but when she flipped the switch between them, it looked like the sunlight was shining from behind their curtains. She flicked the lights off and turned back to Oswald, standing in the middle of the room in his clean clothes and bloodstained skin. He suddenly appeared very unsure of himself.

"When should I start staying here?"

That was it. No why's or demands or overly-emotional displays, just compliance.

"Tonight." Why not? Myla was already here, and her swift, unexpected disappearance was sure to get the rumor mill churning in a direction unrelated to a secret pregnancy.

Her eyes widened. Only for a second, but it was good for Oswald to see even that base sense of surprise. She almost mumbled something about how she should've grabbed a few things.

As if reading her thoughts, Oswald told her, "You have everything you need here." _For now_ , he added mentally. "And, of course, I will bring anything you ask."

Myla simply nodded, doubting she would get any strait answers for the dozen questions knocking around in her head. She was already working on rationalizing this by telling herself she could use the alone time.

But one question couldn't hurt. "Could you stay until I fall asleep?" Waking up completely alone in a new place was one thing, falling asleep under those conditions is another thing entirely.

"Yes." He said quickly. "Yes, love, of course."

They went into the bedroom together. Myla climbed into the bed, clothes and all, while Oswald took off his shoes before joining her. While she may not have enjoyed his company quite so much anymore, Myla did still like feeling the weight of someone else in bed next to her.

They didn't speak, and he ended up falling asleep as Myla continued to muse over the feeling of emptiness she had suddenly obtained.

Oswald started talking in his sleep. Myla remembered how quickly she noticed the way he only ever did it when things became stressful, which was partially why she never talked to him about it; she would just hold him and listen. Of course, she had never really understood things he would mention during these happenings – Myla didn't belong in the parts of his life that caused him stress. Not that she could tell.

Except now, under the musty blankets in this bunker, or whatever it was, she heard Oswald whisper her name. It wasn't clear, but it was there, along with faint mumblings of everything she had been curious about since arriving to this place. Her heart sank when she heard it. Deep down, Myla knew she was going to be down here for a while, but she didn't expect to hear the proof so quickly, and definitely not like this.

Even still, she wasn't angry, and she wasn't scared. Myla rolled over and went to sleep. The


	32. Chapter 32

If there was one thing Jasmine wanted more than anything right now, it was to quit her job.

Technically, she could have. After Myla moved in with Oswald, he gave her the deed to the apartment and told her there wasn't any need to pay up the rest of loan. Of course there wasn't – it was never about about money and he had gotten what he wanted – but she was determined to pay him back every cent, plus interest. She wasn't going to let herself be stuck with the accusation that she had "sold" her cousin, but that meant keeping her job. The job that he specifically gave her as part of the deal that caused all this trouble. There was no way she would be able to quit, move out, and find a new job that would support the loan payments and rent someplace else. It was a loathsome thing, to essentially be reliant on the man who completely fucked over her life, but there was no other way she could even begin to move on with that life if she didn't do this. That's what she told herself. Every time she punched in, with every payment she made, and every day she came home to the apartment she should have been sharing with Myla.

Jasmine took on every available shift she could, and covered for anyone who needed it, which is why she showed up for the Sunday brunch shift instead of her scheduled time later that night, and found the whole staff clustered together in the kitchen. She could sense the buzz of the latest gossip, and Jasmine quickly clocked so she could join them, but as the machine punched her card, everyone stopped. She watched, thoroughly confused, as they all stared at her, momentarily frozen with fear before quickly dispersing. All except Rita, who lagged behind. Jasmine hiked up her purse a little higher on her shoulder and approached her friend.

Rita looked nothing like Myla. She had dark skin, longer legs, and golden, hazel eyes – but something about Rita's apathetic attitude managed to be oddly reminiscent of Myla's carefree one, which served as a strange sort of comfort to Jasmine. Instead of the usual cool, somewhat bitchy expression that Rita so proudly displayed, was a look of uncharacteristic sheepishness. If Jasmine wasn't already suspicious by the way everyone had left so quickly after she'd arrived, she was now.

"So," Jasmine plastered the biggest fake smile she could muster, "what was that about?"

"Oh, you know, the usual rumors." The effort Rita was using to hide the truth was palpable.

Jasmine kept the grin, but her eyes narrowed. "Usual rumors, huh? Who died?"

Apparently she was so right on the money that Rita practically fell over.

"Shit, did someone actually die?" Jasmine's mind raced to the oldest person there she could think of. "Emily?"

A few people had appeared behind Jasmine, eagerly signaling Rita to stop talking. Rita grit her teeth. Jasmine needed to know. She slowly blew out a breath. "No – wait – I mean….You know that cousin of yours? Myla?"

Jasmine struggled to keep her heart from dropping as the name passed through Rita's lips. "...Yeah."

"Um, well, according to a couple people working at the house

she's sort of...gone."

Jasmine didn't understand. Was she trying to say that Myla had left Oswald?

"All her stuff and her car is still there..."

Okay? Do taxi's not exist? Can new things not be bought?

Rita was starting to look visibly pained. She had hoped the vague implication of what happened would be enough. She sucked in a slow breath. "They saw Penguin drag a body down to the incinerator last night."

The noise of the kitchen was suddenly lowered to a hum, Rita's voice sounded slow and distorted in Jasmine's ears.

Myla couldn't be dead. He said...he _promised._

Soon, even the muted sounds around her grew faint behind the ringing in her ears, like a busy tone for her brain as it attempted to process what she had just been told. Jasmine turned on her heel, walking through the swinging double doors and into the restaurant, where the classy and shady came together to mingle over mimosas.

The first thing Jasmine heard clearly was the stemware shattering as she turned over the nearest table. It had been easy – like flipping a grilled cheese. She registered some yelling, and a few surprised screams when she flipped over another, everyone realizing the first had not been an accident. Rita's voice rang out over the rest, telling everyone to let her be. Letting everyone in the damn place know what had just happened to her family. Apparently that gave her a free pass, as everyone backed down to allow the rampage to continue.

After the fifth table, Jasmine could feel the acute ache in her arms, and started settling for ripping the tablecloths off, watching everything fall. Eventually she started snatching everything up – glasses, plates, votives, vases – tossing them and waiting for the shatter. That sweet, therapeutic and enraging sound. She toppled over chairs, knocked over little carts of champagne and fruits.

It could have have been an hour or an instant, Jasmine wouldn't have been able to say, but finally she looked around to see the place thoroughly trashed. A slight inconvenience for Oswald, at best, but causing some inconvenience was better than none. She started walking back toward the kitchen, but suddenly her knees buckled.

And that's when Jasmine fell to the ground, a crying mess in the center of upturned tables, scattered silverware, and broken glass. It was loud and ugly, and she didn't even care that everyone was standing around watching her.

It was safe to say she was finally going to be out of this job.

* * *

Most of the staff went back into the kitchen, except a handful who started to clean. Jasmine was still on the floor, curled up and toying with a teacup, remembering her and Myla's fancy tea parties as kids with that "collection" she inherited. This cup had only managed to get a little chipped, but there were fracture lines sprouting from the small indenture – it would definitely break the next time it was dropped, even on carpet.

The world shifted as Rita lifted her up to sit.

"Hey...Jazz?" Rita said timidly. "You should...you really should go home. Paul offered to drive you."

Jasmine nodded, allowing Rita to help her onto her feet, and then pass her over to Paul at the door.

"I'm going to stop by later to check on you, okay?"

Ugh, pity. This was the last thing Jasmine needed. Rita slung the purse back over Jasmine's shoulder before sending her and Paul to the staff lot.

"So where am I headed?" Paul asked nervously. "Rita said somewhere in the -"

"Paul."

He turned, seeing her dark, sharp eyes fixated on him.

"Give me your keys, Paul."

Paul laughed nervously. "That-that's probably not a very good idea, Jazz."

"Paul." Jasmine repeated stiffly. "I said give me your fucking keys, now."

She absolutely would have hurt him if it came to it, and especially after watching her single-handedly destroy a restaurant (with people inside), Paul seemed to sense that. He dropped his keys into her palm without another word, and stood by helplessly in the parking lot as she drove off with his car.

Jasmine had only been to the mansion once for a party she had gotten too drunk to even remember, but the way there was easy enough. Over Graham Bridge, northwest, and onto the first creepy-as-all-hell dirt road you came across. An hour in good traffic, and she would need every second to figure out what she was going to do when she got there. Oswald was going to lie – that much seemed obvious – how was she going to take that? How was she going to handle the lying, the blatant ass-covering he would put up?

The house came into view, and Jasmine found herself biting down hard on her tongue. Her knuckles were stark white, the veins in her hands straining against her skin from the force of her grip on the steering wheel. Jasmine left behind her purse and walked up to the door.

Gabe answered. Good ol' Gabe, who avoided her stare, looking every bit as sheepish as her co-workers back at the restaurant. He let her walk past without any explanation. Everyone else around followed his example, stepping out of her way as she searched the rooms. They were already starting to whisper, knowing who she was, why she was here. Jasmine was well aware that the people who worked or frequented the house would always be first in line to hear about the...news, but still – was she the absolute last to find out what happened? How disrespectful.

And where the fuck was he?

Finally, she came across someone who silently directed her toward the far corner of the house. In that room, Oswald causally sat behind a desk, where his usual demeanor of smugness and goading seemed momentarily replaced with something a little more pensive. His finger rested on the rim of an empty wineglass, rolling it back and forth on the edge of its base.

"Talov says you made quite a mess." His tone was somewhere between exhausted and bemused.

Why the fuck wasn't anyone looking at her? Didn't she deserve that, at least? "I would've torched the place if I could." She spat.

"I'm certain you would have."

Jasmine waited for the bullshit, but it wasn't coming. The only sound in the room was the smooth rolling sound of the glass against the table.

Soon, the lack of excuses – the lack of anything – was starting to become pretty unbearable. Jasmine's second wind of anger was quickly fizzling into fear, and she started to realize just how much she had come here desperately wanting to hear Oswald lie. To say that Myla left him. That just because she hadn't come home didn't mean she was dead, and she was stupid to believe gossip being spread through busboys.

"Where is she?" Jasmine was terrified of the answer, and it showed.

But she didn't get an answer, the same as she didn't get excuses. Oswald sighed, completely ignoring her question, "I'd say it's pretty clear that you're fired. Can't keep employee's who go around wrecking the establishment, after all...

Your loan has been voided for months now,"he continued, "so there's no worry about that. I suppose you could sell the apartment and give me whatever from that if it means so much to you to pay me back. As far as I'm concerned, we're square."

Jasmine briefly saw red as the anger flared up again. She leaned over the desk, and lightly swatted the wineglass from under his hand. It made a loud, hallow sound as it fell onto the rug. "I didn't come to talk money, you sad sack of shit." She bristled. "And I could give a fuck less about work. I came to find out what happened with Myla."

"Of course." He said lazily. "Although I don't understand why. Seems someone else has done a good enough job of that for me."

Jasmine slapped him so hard her hand didn't just tingle – it burned. She watched Oswald's jaw shift, his ears turning the same shade of bright red as the fresh mark she left on his cheek.

"I think we're quite done here."

Too angry for words, Jasmine slapped him again. Pursing his lips, he swiveled his neck back around to face her.

"I do hope you have a nice life, Jasmine." Oswald did his best to sound cordial, but harsh. "I guess now you'll be living it for her, too." There it was – the admission – however vague. He watched the rage in her expression give way to horror and disbelief, taking advantage of the shock to get up and leave the room.

Jasmine had set her parents up in a nice house, like any good child would. She owned her own place, which is more than most people her age could say. And now she was out of the job she hated, just like she wanted. She thought it all came at the cost of losing Myla. What it really felt like, was the cost of her soul.

What a bargain.


	33. Chapter 33

Terrence, or rather his corpse, had managed to serve quite the purpose to Oswald, through what he could only describe as a gruesome miracle. A minor slip-up in hauling the body to the basement had resulting in a very convenient rumor – one that was even better than the tidbit he had planned to have planted, to be honest. Myla was now, effectively "dead". Not only was she "dead", but he had apparently killed her. The theory, while a little cliché, turned out to be everything he needed.

Myla was adjusting well, despite numerous odds. Oswald was aware that forced isolation could be quite...unpleasant – but even after three weeks, she seemed please with the arrangement more than anything.

The biggest obstacle he forsaw would be sneaking down medical equipment, but there was plenty of time for that. As long as there weren't complications, pregnancy is mainly made up of various tests and monitoring until it's time for the baby to be delivered. For now, Oswald had purchased Harold a portable sonography machine, which basically looked like a clunky old laptop (an incredibly expensive clunky old laptop at that), that he was currently bringing down to the bunker, along with a beat-up box from the closet labeled "DT" that Myla had asked for.

As far as Myla was concerned, her new residence was clearly intended as a solitary fortress for binging on poptarts and Friends episodes. Or at least that's what she had decided to use it for. Also Friend's were the only tapes she could find. She wouldn't necessarily say she was enjoying herself, but for the first time in her life, she was feeling very clearheaded and collected, and the alone time had allowed her an opportunity to do a lot of thinking about her and Oswald. Predictably, there were a few oddities she started to notice. Things that she thought nothing of at the time, or thought it rude to question, but now felt like an imbecile for ever letting them slip past her. Like his setup with the flowers – a gesture that had ultimately made her too uncomfortable to turn him down. Those odd additions to his and Jasmine's contract that made Jasmine look much more greedy and business savvy than Myla knew she was. How her clothes had seemingly vanished, each outfit subsequently exchanged with something of Oswald's choosing. The way he told her he liked keeping the "things" he wanted close. And the most prominent detail: he had never offered to make room or give her a place for her things when she moved in. It wasn't as though her presence was unwelcome – he wanted her there, there was no doubt about that – but her belongings had remained in boxes since Christmas, save for the clothes he had more or less immediately replaced, and some schoolthings. Myla felt she had only been added to his house as something of a decoration. A pretty thing for him to look at, and use.

She didn't feel anything in particular about these revelations other than a half-satisfactory "a-ha" moment. The same as she had felt nothing the night he laid next to her, weeks before, unknowingly admitting that he viewed her and this situation as an embarrassing display of weakness. The fears that this pregnancy and their child would cost him dearly in power.

It had always been about control.

A loud clunk sounded from the main door. Strangely, it didn't made much noise when it was being locked, and from what Myla could recall, there had been no noise at all coming from it on the other side, but from inside the apartment it was serious racket. The first time Oswald came down to check in with her, Myla thought someone was hitting the door with a pipe. But after several days, it was almost background noise. She hoisted herself up onto a counter to wait for him, swinging her legs a bit.

Oswald was becoming more skilled at unlocking the door now, opening it in nearly half the time. He picked up the sonogram machine and the box back up from the tunnel floor and came inside.

"Harold will be here in an hour or two," he shut the door behind him before approaching the counter, "but I wanted to talk to you first."

"Okay."

"I would ask you to – under no circumstances – inform him that you're staying down here." It was already exausting for him to have these talks, especially when it came to his mother. She wanted to tell anyone and everyone – neighbors, the delivery guy, stray cats and passerby on the sidewalk – and Oswald was constantly calling to remind her that she couldn't. Gertrud was very sour about it, complaining that it was bad enough that her grandchildren would be coming from Myla.

Thankfully, Myla would prove less difficult to deal with.

"That's probably a good idea." She agreed.

Satisfied with her compliance, he handed her the requested box from the storage closet.

There were two other boxes he had brought down for Myla – both still taped up and in plain view, he noticed – but whatever this "DT" box contained was something of importance, judging by how she immediately began opening it the second it was placed in her arms. Oswald looked on, curious to see what the fuss was about. At first glance, it was filled up with a bunch of wadded up old flannels. She picked one of them up, revealing a pale mint teacup with a golden handle and filigree. The next shirt held another teacup that looked like a flower. Oswald had remembered her mentioning some special sort of tea set, but didn't imagine it was such a mishmash of design.

"These were my mom's." Myla said fondly. "There's this whole story my grandmother tells about how my mom broke her tea set and replaced it was all these random cups she found, or bought for like a quarter at thrift shops – and after she 'completed' that set, I guess it just turned into a hobby. I tried to make it my thing too for a while. I thought it would make me feel close to her, somehow. It didn't, obviously," she shrugged, "but I still got some neat cups out of it. Silver lining, right?

This isn't even her whole collection. Not even close. I don't have a whole lot of memories from back then, but I remember they used to take up a whole wall in our apartment. A dozen curio cabinets and shelves filled with hundreds of cups. Teapots, too. This one, actually," Myla dug to the bottom of the box, retrieving something, "is the only one that made it."

It took a moment, but upon closer inspection Oswald realized the teapot was meant to be silver. It had been hard to tell at first glance due the tarnish, along with the fact that it appeared to be badly scorched. Myla shook it a little, and they could hear something rattling inside.

"My dad proposed to her with this teapot, with the ring inside. Every night she put the ring back in the teapot before bed, and relive that moment a little every morning." She made a slightly sad, but mostly annoyed sort of face, peering into the spout. "There's no way to get it out, now – not without ruining one or the other. I'm not even sure what it looks like. I want to say it had pearls…" Myla set it down and went back to the box, pulling out a picture frame that she placed face-down on the counter.

This was the most Myla had ever shared with Oswald – with anyone, really. She had always thought these things as too boring or depressing to pass onto others. Jen didn't even know about half the things she was telling him.

"They died in a fire, my folks." Myla spoke too casually for the subject, lining the teacups on the counter, silently counting them before going on. Oswald was starting to feel a little uncomfortable. He knew how the Kozak's died – it was in her recon file – but she never talked to him about her parents before, and honestly he preferred it that way, selfish as that sounded.

"I guess if you want to get technical, they died of smoke inhalation a day or so after the fire. Me and Jazz were at our grandparents for the weekend. Whenever she got mad at me she would tell me my parents died because they stayed in the apartment looking for me. Jasmine was pretty angry about me moving in with her family, at first. Maybe she thought I was there to replace her or something, I don't know. Probably never will."

There was actually a rather validating piece of information to Oswald, who had been feeling just the slightest bit awful about his and Jasmine's heated encounter the month before. It probably wasn't pleasant to have to mourn someone without the body, at least, to provide some amount of closure.

Myla walked around the room, clearing away space to place her knick-knacks before grabbing some of the cups. "I guess I don't really blame her. We were young. I could barely even understand the concept that my parents weren't coming back for me, and well...Jasmine has never been an empathetic person." Satisfied with the arrangement she made in an emptied-out bookshelf, she grabbed teapot and the picture frame, placing them both on the mantle.

Her hand lingered on the frame, which contained the one of the only pictures of her little family all together. Darrow and Tanya Kozak smiled, forever young inside their small case of glass and golden roses. "I'm telling you this, I guess, because I feel like you don't know me. Not really. I think you found some stuff on paper and called it good. You've never asked me anything personal."

However true it was (and it certainly was), the accusation stirred up his anger. Oswald started to say something, only to be swiftly shut down by Myla's continuation.

"That isn't to say that I'm any better than you. I mean, as long as I'm doing honesty hour, I didn't even know how old you were until your birthday." While that was news, it wasn't the worst thing. Better than finding out one's age from a file. "God, I slept with you for weeks before I knew how old you were. Not that it would have mattered, but still. So...it's safe to say this isn't a contest to see who knows who better, but..." her voice trailed off as she turned around.

One thing Oswald had always liked about Myla was how gracefully she moved, but the way she was gliding across the floor to him now seemed almost foreboding. She stopped in front of him.

"Do you want to know how I decided that you were someone I could be with?"

He didn't know what to say.

"You have no idea how relieved I was when you never called me back about that weird first date. Jasmine's wrath aside, the vibe you gave off was more 'sugar daddy' than 'soul mate', and I was not into it. No offense." She added. Not that it mattered. "But then, there was the coffee shop, where I was so distracted about Halloween and Jasmine that I actually opened up to you, and told you about The Other.

I could tell how much you actually related to it. I didn't expect Mr. Rich-and-Successful sitting across from me to understand my biggest insecurity on a personal level, but there it was – and I officially became interested." Myla lifted her arm, pressing a hand on Oswald's chest. "I guess what I'm saying here is, I see you. No matter how much you try to act like you were born for this life you're living, that you've always taken what you wanted, I see you. I could always see it – miles before Mace told me about your manservant job and bad dental hygiene."

Myla watched him, careful not to miss even the lightest flicker of emotion to cross his face. For once, he didn't know what she knew, unaware of all the fears he had laid out to her all these weeks while he struggled to sleep peacefully, and she watched as the smug, knowing glint faded from Oswald's eyes.

It made her feel so powerful. Like she could reach strait though him. "You still carry so much doubt."

That last sentence ticked him, threatening to set him off. This conversation was getting too bold.

"Forgetting your place, are we?" Oswald seethed, ripping her hand off of him. "Have you already forgotten just who I am – what I do? That I am the only person alive who knows where you are right now?"

Myla mused at his use of the phrase "only one alive". Perhaps therein lay the answer to the mystery of the bloodstained suit.

"There is no – not one soul – who could say where you are. Just me. Only me."

This was probably supposed to be terrifying, but somehow it wasn't. Being yelled at from a close proximity is never fun, but Myla wasn't bothered much by it.

"I could do anything – anything at all to you." Another thing Oswald liked about Myla was that she was a decent bit shorter than him. From the right angles, he really towered over her – especially now, as he started walking her into a corner. "No would ever know. There's no one around to feel sorry for you anymore. Don't you know that?"

"I do." She answered simply, feeling the wall at her back. Myla's mind flashed back to the time she was in a similar predicament with Edward. Would Oswald strangle her? Probably not. Word around the house was that he was more of the throat-slashing type when he got his hands dirty.

Oswald would do neither to her, because he was at bit of a loss, wondering why Myla wasn't scared? Why was she choosing now to say all these things? How was it that she suddenly knew how to get to him like this?

"You are right, I'll give you that – except it doesn't matter anymore. I may have not been born for this life, Myla, but I made it mine. I wasn't always used to taking what I wanted, but I do now." His voice was lower now, calmer, but then he noticed her eyes were beginning to look glassy, like she was retreating someplace else in her mind. It was beyond infuriating. "Don't you know that you should be begging me every single fucking day to keep you alive? I don't have to keep you alive." He didn't mean that. Of course he would keep the woman carrying his child living, infuriating as she might be. Oswald liked to think he knew how to walk the fine line between cruel and monstrous.

And she knew that, too.

"But you will."

Her words lingered in the space between them. Oswald was caught between shock and anger and just wanting to...wanting to... Wanting.

Myla's head smacked against the wall with the force of his sudden kiss. Oswald hadn't felt such a animalistic rush of desire for her in a while. Probably not since that day she stood in his kitchen, with tousled hair and blood on her lips. Back when she seemed an almost unattainable fantasy. It was such a regret of his that he didn't rip that pretty red dress off her shoulders and take her then. He frantically shoved his hand into her underwear, fingers rubbing against her desperately, trying to get her wet for him as quickly as possible. "I'll have you begging soon enough." He panted, licking his lips. "We'll see if you can keep this attitude up once I'm through with you."

Myla winced at his roughness, but held his stare.

"I'm not begging yet."


	34. Chapter 34

Neither of them ever never did get a picture, but a physical momento proved unnecessary when it came to the first images of their unborn child – the blurred, slightly confusing figure on the screen before them seared itself into the minds of Myla and Oswald almost instantly.

"Heartbeat is at one-seventy-two." Harold said, his face nondescript. "A bit on the high side..." After a pause just long enough to make Oswald's heart clench with worry, the doctor finished off with, "If you believe in old wives tales, that points to a girl."

A girl. His mother would love that: a sweet little granddaughter to dress up in pretty frills and things.

"Yes everything looks perfectly fine – just not much to see yet, I'm afraid. Measurings pegs you at about seven weeks or so...seven weeks, five days, I'd say...new estimated due date is...December twenty-second."

Still Christmas week. However small a note it was, that single consistency meant the world.

"Well, then," the doctor continued with his notes, "the next appointment will be at thirteen weeks – used to be be sixteen, but there's a few new tests now for structural deformities and the like. Might even be able to catch a glimpse of the gender, if you're so keen."

Myla shrugged. "Sounds great."

Harold sighed. "What else, what else...I feel like a few things slipped my mind at your last visit. You're sure you don't have any questions for me?" He asked. "The two of you are very...quiet, compared to other new parents."

"You're a very thorough doctor, Harold." Oswald smiled. "You should take the silence as a show of confidence."

"Hm..." Harold didn't appear terrible convinced. "You're eating well, Myla? Taking care of yourself?" He watched her nod in response. "Not doing anything too rough, are we Oswald?

Oswald observed as the corners of Myla's lips twitched into brief smirk, the simple, innocuous action sending a rush of heat through him. For the duration of the appointment, he had been hyper-aware of the way his shirt clung to the narrow scratches on his back, tugging on them anytime he shifted in his seat. They were a lovely, stinging reminder of the way Myla dragged her nails across his skin while he fucked her, just like he's always fantasized about. It was delicious.

"Ah, no."

"Good, good." Still not entirely satisfied, Harold closed the screen on the small machine. "I wanted to ask if I might chat with your Miss Kozak alone for just a moment?"

Oswald swallowed down a sarcastic negation and nodded. This would be a good little test for Myla, so he rose up without another word and went into the next room, shutting the door behind him, but remaining just barely inside.

The doctor's polite smile faded as soon as Oswald left. He leaned forward in his chair, and started speaking to Myla in a much lower voice. "My dear, do forgive me if I'm wrong," he began slowly, wanting to phrase the question in the most tactful way possible, though it was a very odd question to have to be asking in the first place, "but is Oswald keeping you down here?"

For the life of her, Myla still hadn't managed to regain much of a sense for matching the expression to a corresponding emotion. She knew Harold's question merited a face that looked puzzled, perhaps even offended – but stonefaced it despite any effort to convey those feelings. "I don't thing I understand – you thing I'm living here? Down here?"

He winced at Myla's louder volume. "A ridiculous notion, I know...I only wanted to ask because, well, lately there have been certain rumors-"

"I don't pay much mind to rumors." Myla interrupted him coolly. "Participating in gossip is a bit high school, don't you think?"

Harold was taken aback by the sudden harshness. Up until this point, her demeanor had been merely indifferent. "Quite." He said dryly.

"Look, doctor – I know it's your job and all to be concerned, and I understand that you've probably heard or been told things that would be cause for such concern, but as you've said – I'm perfectly fine."

"Yes, you are indeed...I'm very sorry for prying, Miss Kozak, this situation is just incredibly unusual for me."

"Much of it is for me as well, trust me." Myla smoothed her skirt in her lap. "On the other hand, I don't think it's too unusual to want privacy or protection for your family."

"If you would, I ask that you please keep this conversation between us?"

"Of course. I wouldn't dream of spoiling Oswald's fondness for you."

"Yes, well," Harold had to bite his tongue, "goodbye for now, Miss Kozak. See you in five weeks."

Myla smiled. At least she still knew how to smile accordingly. "Take care, doctor."

* * *

After bidding Harold farewell, Oswald retreated upstairs to him room, though he would have much rather gone back to Myla. Myla…

He shook his head, knowing he had spent too much time down there as it were. It would be wise to wait at least a day before returning to her, but he would require some distraction in the meantime. Anything to tear his mind from the thoughts involving her soft hands and sharp nails. Oswald walked over to the window, pulling aside the heavy curtains. Myla hated these curtains, always blaming them for the offset of her internal schedule. Ah well, she could pick the curtains to hang in the nursery.

With that thought, it suddenly struck him how he was going to need to acquire everything needed for an infant overnight – he couldn't think of one baby-related item that pass under the scope of an average purchase. There couldn't be any talking, any decorating or nesting of any kind until after their child was born. How stressful, and Oswald already considered himself woefully unprepared on experience with babies and children. He didn't know what sort things to do with an infant, what fathers should do to prepare themselves...Oswald couldn't even imagine what a child of his would even look like.

It was too queer a thing, to take the time envisioning his features on a new face. One that in a sense "belonged" to him, but wasn't "his". He felt he had received a fairly even mix of physical traits from his parents. Hair – father's. Eyes – mother's. Nose – mother's. Ears – father's. So on and so forth. In comparison to the few family photos he had scanned over, Myla was a lightly freckled, slightly tanner, and obviously more feminine version of her father.

Not to say they weren't very nice features to have inherited: the upturned nose, strait teeth, that single dimple in the left cheek, and of course, those eyes. Myla had the largest, most expressive and luminous green eyes he had ever seen on anyone. The kind of deep, lovely green that strikes up imagery of forests and gemstones. They had certainly appeared as hard as any gem, they way the way she stared him down earlier. For several weeks now, Myla's eyes had held a bothersome and disturbing sort of vacancy, and so this newfound vivacity was nothing short of pleasing.

More than pleasing, really. Perhaps this feeling was some result of seeing proof of his offspring, but Oswald currently found himself wanting Myla the same way people need air in their lungs. It was ironic that such a feeling toward her would come about at a time where their contact needed to kept limited, in order to avoid drawing unwanted (and potentially dangerous) attention. The gossip surrounding Myla's "death" was too much of a godsend to ruin. He could still see her – he just needed to be careful. Very careful.

But not too careful with her, if today was any indication of what she could take.

Wrong. Stop.

Oswald dragged his hands down his face, reverting his stare to the garden below. A shame that Myla would have to wait another year before enjoying it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. Edward: the perfect distraction. "Hello."

"News of Myla hit the precinct today. What a shame...what a shame."

"I have to say, that took longer than I expected." Oswald frowned. The GCPD was really falling off the horse these days. "Should I expect a search warrant in my future?"

"They've asked around around a bit," Edward said causally, "but if no one files anything, you have nothing to worry about. You'd get off this charge all too easily and they know it."

"Who are they asking?"

"Well, they started off with the cousin."

Jasmine. Of course. It had been a few weeks now since Oswald had seen her. He had been waiting on some empty threats, or maybe even some talk that she was shopping around for a hitman. "How cooperative to you think she's being, do you know?"

"Not very. They might try again when she gets out of the hospital, but they aren't all that optomistic."

"Hospital?"

"Suicide attempt." Edward clarified. "Heartbreaking stuff."

"Well...that's a shame." What would Myla think of that news?

"Mhm." This topic was getting boring.

"Perhaps I'll send her flowers." Oswald said dryly. Perhaps an overly-sadistic move, but that was the tone he had now established with Jasmine. May as well keep it up.

"On this subject," Edward's voice became slightly hesitant, "you still haven't told me why." Even with all the trouble she caused Oswald, he still couldn't help feeling just the slightest bit sorry for that sweet, wide-eyed girl he used to tutor.

Oswald didn't like lying to Edward. "It was all just getting a bit too...difficult."

"Difficult." Edward repeated. "Bit of an extreme reaction to relationship troubles, though, wouldn't you say?"

"You know me – always overreacting when things get bad."

Edward changed the subject, but not to something that held Oswald's attention quite the way he needed it to. Myla wasn't going to be happy when she heard about Jasmine, and she would have to find out eventually. At least Jasmine hadn't actually died. If she had, he was betting Myla would have wanted to do something like name the baby after her. Jasmine was certainly not the best person to name a child for.

Not that he had much of a stock of people he would approve of his child sharing a name with – with the exception of his mother, of course. Not that Myla would ever go for that.

After some momentary consideration, Oswald had decided he liked the name Violet, if only for the fact that he also liked the color. It was a goofy sort of reasoning that he thought Myla just might find endearing. She definitely would have before, at least.

With the looming prospect of a gender being presented to her in a few short weeks, Myla had also begun to consider names.

It was something of a tradition of both her families to name children for someone in particular: a friends, a family member, occasionally public or historical figures of great inspiration. The Kozak family was an endless list of recycled Soviet names and their variables, save for her father and uncle – her grandparents had stuck to the general theme, but did their best to give their sons more Anglican-sounding names in the hope that it would help them fit in better (being first generation and all). It was a clever thought, though with a last name like "Kozak", Royce and Darrow didn't fool anyone.

Myla decided that, if anything, she wanted to slip in the name "Myle" as a middle name. Myla was her Godfather, for whom she had been named. A perfectly lovely man, and her father's closest and most treasured friend. Myle salvaged everything he could for her out of her families burned and crumbling apartment, he told her fun stories about her parents, and took her across the Atlantic every summer to visit her mother's family. When he moved out of Gotham, he offered her a place with him, only to find himself heartbroken when she had to say no.

Or maybe Mylo, or Milo. It was possible that she was putting his face on one of the countless rude boys of her past, but Myla swore she remembered Oswald saying that he considered the Y in her name to be "an odd choice".

She wondered what names he would offer up. Probably something stuffy. Clarence, or Archibald.

Girls, however – there's something sweet about meeting a little girl with an "old lady" name like Edith. Myla was sure that once they actually got into it, she would feel otherwise, but as of now there wasn't a single name she could think of that she disliked. Although, there weren't a whole lot that she liked enough to potentially use either.

Oh, well. It wasn't as if she didn't have the time to think on it.

She definitely had the time.


	35. Chapter 35

For being such a small space, The Bunker did manage to provide some surprises – like how the "cabinet" between the bookshelves turned out to actually be a record player. Or a type of record player – or maybe she was confusing a type with a brand? In the end it didn't really matter, because Myla was a little burnt out on television and reading. She didn't even care that the only music available was a choice between folk and opera.

A routine began. Every "morning" she put on a record, tied her hair back, and baked something. Today was an attempt at a blackberry pie, accompanied by Otello.

Pies weren't exactly her thing, and it showed. Myla could bake an excellent tray of muffins, her cookies were a consistent hit at bake sales, and she could frost a cake better than the average person – but pies were something of a weakness. Mostly, it was the crust. Not enough flour and the dough was too sticky. Too much, and it would crumble. You want the crust to be flaky, but there is such a thing as "too flaky"?

And there was the waiting game. Myla could generally tell if her desserts would turn out alright, but with pie, it felt like a gamble from start to finish.

That was one regret of hers – she had wanted to be a better baker. Not that there wasn't time for that, but she had been on the right path to being a better baker at Jerry and Pam's, and Oswald took her from that. She was going to college for art history, because she felt it would give her life a richness of culture, and he took that too. Of course, her life with Oswald was bound to be a cultured one, but again, it was not on her terms.

The only positive thing about Oswald that had come to mind was the fact that their children would certainly never want for anything. He could sure as hell afford them all the paintbrushes and music lessons and whatever else they might want, and then some.

Once the pie was in the oven, Myla washed her hands, and looked around at her latest mess. There were deep purple smears on the counter, gelatinous pools of berry on the stove, and a generous amount of flour seemed present on every surface. Myla drummed her fingers against the wall. She had been fairly good about keeping the place tidy so far, but it felt more and more pointless each day.

The door began unlocking – a clear sign that she wasn't meant to clean (yet) – and she leaned back against the counter, waiting.

After coming through the door, Oswald was slightly taken aback by the sound of music playing, spending his first few moments inside searching for the source. "A Victrola?" He asked. "Hm. When did you lean to work something like that?"

So that was the name, although she still wasn't sure whether it was a brand or a type. "Honestly, it was a lot of trial and error. I found it...a week ago?" She explained. "Anyway – thank you."

Oswald became briefly amused. "For what?"

"For the life of me, I couldn't remember what that thing was called. Drove me crazy for like, a month."

He paused. "You just said you found it last week."

"Whatever." The days felt so long down here. "I guess it's been driving me crazy for a week, then." Myla noticed Oswald looking at her oddly after that, and decided maybe it was good time to clean the kitchen. Busywork was the perfect distraction from his stare.

"Are you feeling alright?"

The exaggerated tone of concern was grating. "You know it." Myla said through her teeth.

"Do you need any new clothes?" By "new", he of course meant "larger".

"Not yet." You would think it would have been hard for her to tell, considering she spent about ninety percent of her time in sweatpants (or no pants) and a button-up from the closet three times too large, but when the mood struck Myla (and struck quite often, actually), she would put on the dress from the night Oswald brought her down there. It was silk and cotton, very fitted, next to zero give in it – in other words, something in which she would instantly be able to tell if her body had changed shape or weight-wise. "Maybe in a couple weeks."

Looking pregnant was something Myla was starting to get a little desperate for. Sheldrew told her how "blessed" she was to not have many symptoms, but it felt very…wrong, somehow. Defective wasn't quite it, but not seeing herself grow or experiencing any normal sign of pregnancy left her feeling very uneasy – like something was going to turn out wrong, in exchange for her good fortune in not having to puke every fifteen minutes.

Oswald was still staring.

"If you're so concerned I'll go crazy down here, maybe you should have thought first, and put me someplace else." Myla watched his eyes widen in surprise.

"Excuse me?"

"God, I can't believe you were ever so hard for me to read." She mumbled. That thought had been written all over his face since the first night. Subsequently, every visit he made, it was plain to see that he was worried this would be the time he would come in to find she had completely lost it.

"Just...stop worrying." In her annoyance, she threw the mixing bowls into the sink a little harder than she should have. "There is no yellow wallpaper. There are no shadow people. I'm fine."

"But are there shadow people?" He asked jokingly.

Myla shot him a look. "Don't. That's not the point."

Oswald didn't know to make her understand that there was simply no where else for her. No other place nearly as safe, nearly as secret, that didn't require as many people to know their situation. She didn't understand that moving her was a gamble neither of them could afford to lose. Well, he could try.

Oswald bit his tongue. "Darling..."

"Don't call me that. This isn't an eighteenth century novel, you just sound ridiculous."

He hoisted her up, a little clumsily – the counter scraped against her backside as he did – but she didn't terribly mind. The burn it left behind was almost pleasant.

"Darling," he said again, "you have to be here."

How unsatisfactory. "Why?"

"It wouldn't be as safe as it is here." She would never be a more serious target than while she was pregnant. "And I wouldn't be able to see you."

What a tragedy that would be. Myla bit her tongue before that sentence could come out, and picked up his head from her lap to regard him more closely. She was starting to get pretty decent at discerning his lies now, but today there was nothing but his steely eyes staring back at her.

But Myla did rather like Oswald from this angle. Staring down at him, while he looked so upset. His face felt almost fragile in her hands, as she watched the light glint off his eyes, wondering how long he would allow the tension and his lust to build. The last time with him was so wild and desperate, and had more fighting than fucking. He pulled her hair, clamped his teeth down on her shoulder hard enough to leave dark bruises. At one point, his hand was on her throat – just a light squeeze, but Myla responded violently all the same. She remembered staring down at the dried blood under her nails after promising Sheldrew that she wasn't doing anything too rough on her body.

It didn't look like she was in for that same forcefulness today. Hands slipped under her shirt, ghosting up her sides, fingertips sliding against the skin of her back before they gripped her shoulders, and he pressed his lips against her collarbone.

"I miss you very much, you know." The low vibration of his voice gathered in the hallow of her throat.

Myla only blinked in response.

Oswald's hands began their slow retreat from inside her shirt, moving to the buttons. "Does that surprise you?"

It did, a little. She felt loved by him, in a sense, but you can be loved and still not be important. Ultimately, Myla assumed she was disposable, and so this admission of the contrary was somewhat jarring.

"I don't believe you."

She didn't look at him again, but the subtle movement of facial muscles beneath her palm told her that he was smiling now. "Fair enough, I suppose." With the last of the buttons undone, the way the large shirt hung around her small frame could be considered comical if they weren't so busy being serious. "I know what's true. I know I miss this…"

"Missing my body isn't the same as missing me." Myla said sharply.

"How about this, then...I miss how much better the house smells when you're in it," her baking, the scent of her minty shampoo lingering on his pillowcase, "and your humming," in the shower, as she was doing her homework, reading, "and the way you stare out the windows like a little caged bird." The last words came out like a whispering hiss while his fingers dug into her thighs.

Overall it was a sweet list, even though the last bit was a bit iffy, but Myla remained unmoved. "So, am I supposed to answer with the things I miss about you."

Oswald was silent, and his grip on her lessened.

"Do you suppose there are things about you that I should be missing?"

"I could give you things to miss." He replied simply.

"Right, like how you made me beg." Myla taunted. She could have given him something. She wouldn't even have to fake that something – of course she missed him, regardless of the terrible person that he was. She could tell him that she missed his deceit – there had actually been something special about the way he used to lie to her, and try to make himself look like a decent person in her eyes, to make her think he really needed her. It seemed like a thing he wouldn't want to hear, which made it all too tempting.

His benevolent expression shifted slightly, but he reigned it in, despite Myla's jab.

With no end coming to their silence, Myla hopped off the counter and shed the shirt. Not like it was doing much to cover her now anyway. She tugged on the sleeve of his jacket in a "follow me" gesture, before she led the way to the bedroom. Oswald never came down here for just a check in and some demeaning banter, and that was fine. Truthfully, she wouldn't have minded if he told her it was only her body he missed. Things like that didn't matter to her anymore. It didn't matter that his kiss held something behind it that hadn't been there in a long time. None of it mattered to her at all.

But it mattered to him. It mattered far too much to him. From her dreamy expression and the way they moved together, breathed together – by God, there was nothing about it that didn't matter. He loved the expressiveness of her hands. They glided over the planes of his torso, held him closer to her, gripped his hair when he pushed her knees back to her shoulders. Reveled in the way she gasped and squirmed and whimpered at how deep he went.

"Myla." Oswald had nearly forgotten how well her name rolled off his tongue. How sweet it sounded, saying it over and over. Myla. Myla. My-la. My-love. My…My….

Mine.


	36. Chapter 36

Jasmine was a typical teenager who was always sneaking out of the apartment to go to parties, and was always the worst when it came to sneaking back in. Usually drunk off her ass, she would clamor noisily up the fire escape (that wouldn't set off any alarms – there was always someone making a racket on the fire escape), fall through their window (but her parents would try to convince themselves that it was noise from a neighbor), and then, she would kick off her shoes. Right into the wall, and – leaving Liv and Roy with no other explanations for the noise – effectively busting herself.

And that's the exact noise that woke Myla. Oswald never kicked off his shoes like that, and even if he did, oxfords wouldn't make that sort of noise anyway. Shoes like that make a slap, and this noise was a heavy, distinctly rubber thud. Boots, probably.

Myla slowly rolled out of the bed. Sure enough, there was a sliver of light shining from under the door, and sounds of someone rummaging through the kitchen. She wouldn't say that this development scared her, but she was a bit stunned. So much for Oswald's "only I know of this place" thoroughly unconcerned for her own safety, Myla pushed open the door without as much as a second thought.

Nothing.

Except for the boots on the floor. For a moment, Myla's heart leapt into her throat when she saw them. Mace wore boots like those. Just like those. Emboldened by this, she called out into the apartment.

"I know someone's in here."

Undeterred by the silence, she called out again. "Just come out already" She watched closely as a mop of curly hair slowly appeared from behind the counter.

It was just a girl. A girl Myla felt she vaguely recognized from the house, though she knew for certain they had never formally met. "What are you doing here?"

"You know, just getting a midnight snack." The girl said, a little sheepishly. "You gonna rat on me?"

"No." Oswald probably wouldn't believe her, being so sure that absolutely no one knew about the apartment. "Who are you though?"

"Folks upstairs call me Cat." The girl set the box of Zingers she had been holding onto the counter, but not before retrieving some, stuffing them into various pockets.

Myla was unimpressed. "Name."

"Cat" frowned, making as much noise with the wrapper as she could while opening the snack. "Selina." The girl stared for her for a solid minute before something clicked – she knew exactly who the woman in occasional secret hideout was. "Hey, aren't you Penguin's squeeze?"

"I guess that's a word for it." Myla said dryly. "So, you've been down here before, huh? Didn't notice the changes to the place?"

"Yeah...I do usually notice stuff like that, actually," Selena took a bite, not wanting to show how surprised she was by who she had just found, "but I guess I got too used to no one knowing this place existed."

"Yeah, yeah...How did you get in so quietly, anyway? That door is the worst – I've never been able to sleep through it before." The Kozak's were notorious heavy sleepers, but Myla wasn't such a heavy sleeper that she wouldn't have been bothered by the door's metallic cacophony. The way the girl appeared into this place was starting to seem suspicious. Maybe she was lucid dreaming. Maybe she had finally lost it.

After a moment or two, Selena realized Myla was talking about the Dummy Door. She called it that because the location of that particular entrance was pretty obvious (anyone who'd watched an episode of Scooby Doo or played Clue could tell you there was always a secret passageway in the study). The knowledge of the noise the door made was new – probably built that way as a warning to whoever was hunkering down inside.

Selena knew of three other entrances, all of which were spread about the property for what she assumed was for convenient emergency access. She came in through the one in the closet behind the dryer, which led out into the garden. Easy peasy.

"Just gotta know how to work it, I guess." Selina lied. She didn't know what Myla was doing down here, but didn't want to get in trouble with Penguin. The gig with him had gotten too good, and it wasn't as if his darling doll looked like she looked to be in bad shape. A little pale and sick looking, but very much alive.

"Hm." Myla had no reason so far to doubt the girl. "What brings you down here, then?"

"I just crash here sometimes."

"Are you a runaway?" Myla eyed the girl again, who was clearly very young. Much younger than Mace. "You look a bit young."

"Sure, let's go with that." All she had wanted was some snacks and shut-eye, not all these useless questions. Although, Selina had a few questions of her own, come to think of it. "What are _you_ doing down here?"'

"No one's supposed to know." Myla knew it would be a harmless thing to tell if this "Selina" were part of a dream, but held off for now.

"It's just kind of a curious thing, you know, cause you're supposed to be dead and all."

"Dead?" Myla frowned. "Why would anyone think that?"

Selina shrugged. "Probably has something to do with this mangled corpse a bunch of people saw Penguin draggin around, and how no one saw you after that."

Myla bit her tongue. "I have to admit, that is one hell of a coincidence."

"Yup." Selina went to sit down on the couch with her pastries. "So, is you being here a punishment, orrrrr…."

Myla shook her head. "No, no punishment."

"Is this like, a sex slave thing?"

"Nope."

"You know, I could tell you things – there has to be something you'd like to know." Selina could bargain, if this chick wanted to play ball. "I'm really good at finding out stuff."

At this point, Myla still hadn't ruled out the possibility of this being a dream. Something about how she hadn't heard the door open just didn't sit right with her. "Well…" She bit her lip as she contemplated the options. "Can you keep a secret?"

Selina sat up straighter. "Oh yeah."

"I'm here because I'm pregnant." There it was, the first time she got to share the news with someone, and Myla wasn't even sure this someone actually existed.

"Welp, I didn't see that coming." Selena admitted. "But wait – you've been gone for like, months now." It wasn't entirely clear from the baggy shirt she was wearing, but Myla sure didn't look like someone halfway through a pregnancy.

"I know, it's so weird." Yet so much more reassuring than it was before, now that Myla could feel movement.

"Well...congrats? I mean, gross – but good for you."

"He keeps telling me he put me here so I would be safe." Myla looked toward the window where the fake sunlight shone through. "But really, it's more so he won't look weak. He thinks I already make him look too weak."

"He actually said to you?" Selina was more than aware of what an ass Penguin was, but honestly, who says things like that to the mother of their child?

"He didn't….mean to." It would probably be alright to tell a dream person about Oswald's occasional sleep-talking habit, but apparently even in her dreams Myla felt the need to exercise a bit of caution.

"Oh." Either he did or he didn't, is what Selina wanted to say. She kind of wanted to know for sure before she did anything overly petty toward him. "So do you know what it is? You know, the….baby?" Could an offspring of Penguin's really be considered a human baby?

"A boy." Myla answered. _A legacy_ is what Oswald called him. She looked away again.

"That's...nice." This was getting a little weird for Selina. Well, it was weird before, but now it was getting really, uncomfortably weird.

"So, what's your news?" Myla was so tired. How could it be possible to feel this tired in a dream?

"What do you want to know?"

"Anything about my family, maybe?"

"Um," Selina spent a minute racking her brain for something, then remembered about Jasmine. "I remember your cousin was in the hospital for a while."

"For what?"

Shit. Selina forgot it was because Jasmine tried to off herself. While she certainly considered herself to be lacking in tact, she still knew you shouldn't go around upsetting pregnant ladies with news like that. "She, um...got herself hurt. When she heard about you, she kind of went on a rampage in the restaurant she worked at."

Myla didn't know Jazz would still care so much to pull off a stunt like that. "But she's alright now?"

"Definitely, yeah."

"How is..." Myla hesitated, "How is Molly – Margaret – I mean Mace. Do you know?"

"Mace?" Selena clarified, because she sure didn't know any Molly's or Margaret's. "I mean, she didn't do anything crazy like your cousin – she wouldn't embarrass Vic like that – but I know she was freaking out for a while."

"I would say to tell her that I'm fine," _if I knew you were real_ , Myla added to herself, "but I guess she'll know...soon." Her hand brushed against her belly for a moment. It was going by so fast. The calendar was marked up halfway through September. Summer was over, Christmas right around the corner. "I think I'd like to have another dream now."

"Oh, okay." Selina had barely even seen Myla enough to recognize her at all. They had certainly never spoken to each other before tonight, and so she couldn't really comment on how odd the woman might have been before. She sure was now. "Sorry I woke you."

"It's okay. And, I mean, you can't still come here – I don't mind." Real or not, Myla couldn't be rude to her. Who kicks out a clearly young teenaged girl from a safe place? Not her.

"I was just gonna crash the couch for a few hours, if that's okay."

"Of course." Myla pushed herself up. "Goodnight, then." Perhaps it was the effects of maternal instincts kicking it, but the exchange Myla held with Selena felt strangely affectionate there towards the end. Reminded her that soon she would have this her own special little person to wish goodnight. That little person would grow into a teenager just like the one on the couch in front of her.

It was far too early for her to be having feelings such as those. Especially if they were occurring over delusions. Myla thought about attempting to brush up against Selena on her way back to the bedroom – anything to get even the slightest confirmation that this had happened – but didn't. She looked very closely at Selena as she passed by: saw the frizz in her curls, smelled the grass on her leather jacket, but didn't dare to lay even a fingertip on the girl, maddening as it was not to.

Myla had worked so hard to be fine. Throughout the apartment she had placed dozens of physical markers and developed ticks to assure her of reality, held several mantras, started keeping diaries. Now all that felt utterly pointless, because of a girl eating Zingers in the living room.

Telling Oswald was risk of admitting either a breech of safety or sanity, and Myla could afford neither.

With eighteen weeks worth of nights already behind her, she would put this one behind her too.


	37. Chapter 37

"It is only proper."

So it was. Myla picked up the small box from his hands, still focused on the ring laying it's bed of blue velvet. Clearly old, very beautiful...gold, set with a pearl so large it bordered on obscene.

"I know it's probably not much like your mother's," he knew for a fact it wasn't – this ring was a one-of-a-kind Art Nouveau piece that cost a small fortune, "but I thought you might like something...similar."

"It is lovely..." Myla had seen this coming. Oswald was a traditional enough man, so of course he would want to do "right" by marrying her.

"We could get married in the spring – on your birthday, perhaps. I definitely feel like I have some making up to do, since you spent your last one here."

Truthfully, it had taken a while for Myla to notice the passing of her birthday. The first several weeks in The Bunker – before she learned to keep proper track of where the days were going – were...well, "a blur" didn't really capture the gravity of how strange and terrifying it had felt. All sense was time had vanished, and before she knew it, it was July. Her mid-May birthday had come and gone without so much as a candle on a cupcake.

"Sounds like you've been making plans." Myla hoped to God that she didn't sound nearly as lost as she felt right now.

"I definitely have plans, but plans won't mean much without a yes." He held his breath, watching as she finally picked up the ring. It wasn't exactly the type of ring Myla had pinned to her high school dream board, but it sure was beautiful, and more than anything she had ever expected to receive, on a realistic level.

Still – Mrs. Myla Cobblepot. The name sounded off just saying it in her head. Or would it technically be Kapelput? That would be neat – she could keep her initials.

"Married." Myla mused, figuring it was time to try the thing on. The ring was weighty, but it fit. Everything Oswald gave her always fit perfectly, like he knew her and her body better than she did or would.

Nothing about a soulmate is ever up to you. You don't get to choose them, it doesn't matter how rotten a person they are – a soulmate is a soulamate, and maybe it was about time she accepted that Oswald may very well be hers.

"Yes." Oswald said briskly. "Married. To me." She was keeping him in far too much suspense.

She hesitated. "I think I'd like to...pick the place, at least." Myla didn't take her eyes off the ring as she made the single, weak demand. No point in fighting this anymore. Could marriage really change things for the worse? Doubtful. She let him take her hand.

"Of course." Oswald agreed eagerly. "You can choose whatever you want, you can -"

"I'd rather just be responsible for the place." Myla interrupted. "Your taste is better than mine, after all."

Unsure of whether to be flattered by the compliment or upset at her disinterest, Oswald tried to remain pleased in the fact that she technically agreed to his proposal. He would get a better reaction from her when she returned to the house, he was sure. He was aware of how this place had really drained her.

The place, and also their son. It had taken a while, but Myla finally looked pregnant. Not eight months pregnant, but still pregnant, and she was experiencing every ounce of discomfort an average third trimester promised. She couldn't sleep, she had trouble breathing, and sometimes she couldn't even stand or sit upright for very long without starting to black out.

Oswald let go of her hand and pressed his palm against her belly. "How is Walter?"

Myla frowned. "You know I don't like that name."

"Yes, well," he smiled weakly, "I thought that perhaps it would grow on you."

"I hasn't."

Oswald bit his tongue. "Alright well….mother suggested a name. I think you might like it."

She tried not to, but Myla knew she made a face at the mention of his mother. "What's the name?"

"Emory."

That actually wasn't that bad a name, but with it being Gertrud's suggestion, Myla couldn't help but want to be petty for a minute before showing any approval. "Isn't that a pretty popular name right now?" She felt like that was sort of an up-and-coming name, and knew Oswald was fairly disapproving of anything deemed too "common", which is why many of her names were on the "no" list. However, even the desire for something unique hadn't stopped him from rejecting "Kostek", even though it was her grandfather's name and would have meant a lot to her.

"It certainly does sound much more modern than Walter." He admitted. "Mother says it means 'brave'." Oswald had been quick to realize meanings almost meant more to Myla than a name itself.

Damn, that was good. Myla glanced down at the sparkling new addition to her left hand. If there was one thing she had always disliked, it was the cliché bad relationship between a woman and her Mother in Law. Emory was a more than decent name. If used, Gertrud would get to feel special about naming her grandson, and perhaps it would allow Myla to avoid a lifetime of passive-aggressive, drunken digs on weekends and holidays.

"What was that other name – you know, that 'A' name you threw out a few weeks back."

"Alistair?"

"Yes." Oswald's entire approved list was short but full of old-fashioned and irregular choices, and through the months since they had learned it was a son they were expecting, he hadn't really budged on many of of them. Myla had initially rejected "Alistair" because she didn't care for how it looked spelled out, but it was the name she secretly liked best out of the bunch, and she didn't hate it nearly as much as "Walter" - the name that Oswald couldn't seem to let go. She had been hanging onto Alistair as a bargaining chip, wanting to wait until he was desperate enough for their son to have a name that he would agree to a nickname like "Alan" or "Alec", being too surprised or pleased at settling it to turn the offer down.

"Alistair Emory, Emory Alistair – either sounds nice, don't you think?"

Just as she hoped, Oswald's eyes widened. Compromised between them were few and far between these past months, Myla not being the same pushover she had been above ground. "Y-yes. Both sound nice."

"We can decide officially when he's born. Bad luck to name a baby before he's born, anyway."

"How very superstitious of you." Oswald smirked. "You may have more in common with my mother after all."

"Huh, I guess you wouldn't know much about my mom's side."

He really didn't. Oswald had speculated that Tanya Kozak was an orphan lost in the system, or perhaps an illegal, judging by how short a paper trail she had left behind.

"Well, they're English, and they're Romanichal." Myla yawned. It must have been nearing naptime. "There's a lot of superstitions with them – a lot of odd traditions and whatnot."

Myla had gypsies in her family? Wait, that wasn't the acceptable word anymore. In any case, that was certainly news, and his mother was going to have quite the field day with it.

"Like, just so you know, they already think we're married. As in they consider a couple to be married the day they move in together." Myla wedged a pillow behind the arm of the couch and laid down. She couldn't wait until she could feel just a bit less exhausted – kind of a pipe dream for motherhood, though.

"Huh, that's interesting." It was unpleasant feeling for Oswald to be thrown off by such an oversight, especially because now that he'd had a few moments to think about it, she had mentioned visits to England before. Several times. There was one instance in particular, at dinner just before that biting incident – he distinctly remembered the topic of summer and Bristol and her godfather. This was back when she was attempting to up her style to something of his caliber. Myla still had much to learn about classic dressing rules and etiquette, but she looked beautiful nonetheless in a navy velvet dress and white gloves. Her hair was up, her cheeks were rosy – just absolutely precious. Oswald had spent the majority of the date imagining Myla reaching down, wrapping her gloved hand around his cock under the table.

Ah, memories.

Being stuck in The Bunker had done quite a number, as far as Myla's looks. Her freckles were gone, she looked very yellow and sickly. Harold had been tiptoe-ing around the subject of her declining health, but not so completely as to avoid making thinly veiled threats to induce her early if that was what Oswald required to allow her proper care. But the number of weeks was down to one hand now. Two more – at the very least two more weeks – and they would be out of the woods as far as guaranteeing their son nearly perfect health.

"We'll talk more later." Oswald patted her stomach again before standing up. "You need rest...I'll be back soon."

"Alright." She said quietly.

Almost there. Just a few more weeks. Myla wasn't sure what she was going to do once this was over, and she had to go back. Actually, she was dreading it. True, it was lonely in the saferoom, but there wasn't any pressure or expectation to act like things were fine. Even Oswald seemed to know better than to act like their situation was okay. However, upstairs there would be those expectations. She wasn't confident she would be capable of being – or at least pretending to be – a normal, happy wife and mother. One particularly haunting thought was that it wasn't just that she wouldn't want to, but she wouldn't be able to. What if the ability to even act out the correct emotions lay beyond her reach?

And what if she never felt the right sort of way about her child? That was the worst thought of all.

Breathe in, breathe out. Myla looked around at the walls of her enclosure, painted a blue so clearly meant to mimic the sky outside.

What was it going to feel like, she wondered, to see the real sky again?

It had better be worth it.


	38. Chapter 38

Emory Alastair Cobblepot was born eight days shy of his due date, with dark hair, and darker eyes.

Shortly afterward, the day came for him and Myla to rejoin the household, to much shock and awe, but very few people were pleased.

Predictably, Myla family was least pleased of all.

As they had agreed upon, Jasmine was the first call. She was so stunned to hear from Myla that she fainted, and Paul had to pick her up and drive her over.

The first words Jasmine said to her cousin's face in almost a year were, "You look like shit."

"Ha," Myla wheezed, "well I certainly feel like shit."

"Good." Jasmine could have been much crueler, but it was hard to be mean when she was so happy to know Myla was alive. She picked up tiny Emory from his bassinet. "Cute thing, for such an ugly father."

Myla looked at her crossly "Don't say that, Jazz."

"So...what happens now? You know, with you and Penguin?" Jasmine asked, ignoring her comment. "Do you really want to stay after all this...stuff?"

"We're getting married in the spring." Myla briefly held up her left hand to showcase the ring.

Struggling to hide her true feelings, Jasmine tried to be nice in going about her disprovable. Myla had been through enough, after all. "I hope you know that I can't...accept that." She said slowly.

"Yeah," Myla said sadly, "I know."

"I really wish you would have listened to me."

"Me too."

Next was a call to Myle. He asked what had happened, she said it was complicated.

"A situation this complicated is a situation you should probably leave." He warned, but agreed to attend the wedding anyway. Myla needed someone to give her away.

Her aunt and uncle refused to speak to her. Not that she blamed them. Myla imagined it must have been quite the ordeal to think the girl you raised had been brutally murdered. Although they never held a funeral or anything for her. They must have not been terribly convinced she was dead after all. Or they were just being cheap. It hurt either way.

Grandma Ophelia and her cousins had finally gotten cell phones over the summer.

"I knew you weren't dead." Her gran said matter-of-factly. "And I can hear in your voice that you've only been getting stronger, my love."

It was nice to have someone who wasn't so angry about her disappearance, and realized she hadn't gone off the grid just to mess with them or anything. She might as well have pretended she did, for all anyone cared.

Once everything with her family and friends was all said and done, and Gertrud finally returned Emory, Myla spent a lot of time just staring at her son as he lay next to her. Her feelings were indescribably, frustratingly vague at this moment – she couldn't say that she was so overwhelmed with love or gratitude or anything warm and fuzzy like that – really all she kept thinking about was how this tiny person had been growing inside her for all this time, and now he wasn't. Perhaps she would have something more eloquent in description once she was off her pain meds.

Even Mace paid her a visit, as Myla's first day back came to a close. She opened the door just wide enough to slip through, as if she wasn't actually supposed to be there, and didn't say a word the entire time. Neither did Myla, who was more than happy to simply have Mace sitting next to the bed, looking back at her. Ten minutes later, she left without a word.

While Myla dealt with feelings regarding anger, disappointment, and shame – everyone else was in a state of morbid reverence toward Oswald. After all, he had spent months playing along with the rumor that he murdered his girlfriend. Not only that – he actively goaded that rumor along. Bragged about it. Rubbed in in her families faces that he was getting away with it scott-free. And while he was acting this part, he kept a pregnant Myla safe in a place so secret, no one could even begin to guess where she had been all this time.

The news quickly made its way through the city, and already another rumor had already been taking off – one where he had hired a small army of people to keep watch over her, and slaughtered them all once Myla gave birth.

Only in Gotham.

No one could deny that it was, nonetheless, an impressive feat to keep one's pregnant girlfriend hidden away while facing charges for her murder. While under the immense pressure of running a criminal empire, and being watched and trialed relentlessly by comrades and enemies alike. It was something unheard of. They say fatherhood changes men in many ways, and it was clear that fatherhood had somehow changed Oswald into someone perhaps even more deft and resourceful.

Like how it was clear to Myla that holding their son definitely had Oswald feeling something. Something which Myla couldn't quite touch on just yet. Unlike down in the bunker, he spent every free moment he could claim to see them, and Myla had been looking on with a deep-rooted envy at how much happier Emory looked in his father's arms, and how content Oswald looked to be holding him. It all felt very unfair.

After a few minutes, Oswald noticed something off about the room, aside from the negative energy Myla was sending off. The window. She messed with the curtains again. "You need to leave the curtains open, Myla." He reminded her gently.

"Yeah, I know...It's just...bright." Since her return to the main house, she had become painfully aware that she had suffered more from being cut off from the outside world than she thought. Very few things had gone ideally since her transition, and it felt like she had impossibly long road ahead of her as far as adjusting back to everyday life and functions.

Oswald frowned. Birth recovery was going especially well for Myla – she insisted her pains levels were tolerable, and she was up and about after less than half a day. However, he should have started Myla on a path to recovery before she gave birth. Each time he entertained the idea it became "danger this" and "what if that", so he never quite did. Harold had spoken with him about trauma therapy, and recommended that Gertrud stay with them at least a couple months to make sure Emory would be completely cared for. He stressed that Myla would likely not have mental capacity to deal with a newborn, and brought up the potential harrowing dangers of postpartum depression. Myla needed to be watched closely, often. Damn near twenty-four-seven if they could help it, Harold said. Oswald's mother, of course, was thrilled for the opportunity to be an everyday part of her grandchild's first months. Mace was put back on the clock. Selina had her ears to the streets, to see if anyone might set in motion something awful for his new little family.

Why did he still feel so unprepared? He had been given so much time, and yet everything managed to feel terrifyingly uncertain. He hadn't even fully grasped the idea that Myla's mind could be too shot to deal with the responsibilities of a wife and mother, let alone had a plan for what he would actually do if that became a reality.

Myla flinched when he opened the curtains. Thinking about the way the sunlight burned her eyes and stung her skin made her feel like she was a part of a cliché vampire story.

"Mother wants to throw a party." Oswald mentioned. He knew Myla was in no state to attend a party of any kind, but she needed to know regardless. "She was rather put out when she couldn't throw a baby shower, so she wants to do something for Emory...and also she offered to plan an engagement party for us."

That was surprising. Myla perked up a little. "Really?" She tried, and failed, not to sound to incredulous. Gertrud throwing them an engagement party? Actually wanting to put it together for them? Damn. Maybe using her name choice would pay out after all.

Oswald nodded. "She's very happy, you know, about being made a grandmother…and she's more excited about the wedding than you might think."

"The wedding..." Myla said dreamily. She even smiled.

"Mhm." He sat down on the edge of her bed. "Speaking of that, I was wondering if I might ask a favor of you, regarding our wedding day."

"Oh?" Myla propped herself up a bit more.

"I would like you to wear something blue."

"Well...that's not really a request." Having a "something blue" was treated like a holy requirement.

"Not a 'something blue' – a blue dress." He squeezed her hand. "You were wearing a blue dress when we met, remember?"

The dress in question? A vintage-inspired number in a silvery, powder blue. Oswald remembered seeing it from across his club, thinking how unseasonable the shade was, but once he got closer, he actually quite admired how the color looked on her. Blue in general was very lovely on her – there was a reason he had bought more blue dresses for her than anything else.

Myla smiled wryly. Of course he would suggest something like that. Oswald really could be such a sentimental fool sometimes. "Blue it is." She wondered if she would have been nearly as noticeable had she worn anything else, instead of slipping on her summer favorite in hopes of enjoying what she guessed would be the last warm-ish day before fall weather settled in. She almost snorted remembering his question "Do you work here?". Clearly not, as she already knew full well Jazz and the other female employees wore things that were short and black, and so would he. Slick. There was almost nothing he had done or said during their early courtship that wasn't slick.

How different would her life be right now, if she had just stayed in the wagon?

The results of their meeting weren't all bad, obviously – how could she say it was after it had brought about the recent existence of a rather adorable, raven-haired infant, which Oswald now handed over for her to feed.

He was definitely cute, the squishy little toothless thing he was. Myla hadn't experienced much interaction with babies before, but so far everything with Emory was going just fine. A week into motherhood doesn't necessarily mean the standard is set, and were likely many, many sleepless nights and aggravating days ahead of her, but for now things were well.

Oswald paused at the door on his way out. "Please get some rest….and please leave the curtains open." His tone was slightly warning, but not overly harsh.

"Thank you, Oz." After all these months, she decided he deserved a little give from her. She had been stubborn and callous – bordering on downright mean – to him for a while now. He had deserved that too, but things were different. They had a baby now. Emory was now her ultimate, unbreakable tie to Oswald, and she had to make the best things.

They would be husband and wife soon, after all.


	39. Chapter 39

The day of wedding got off to a bit a rough start. Or at least it felt like way, considering Myla hadn't slept in a solid day or so (though she should have been used to that by now anyway). When Mace came by at seven to "wake" her, inviting Myla and Emory out for a per-celebratory breakfast, it was nothing short of a godsend. Even if they were under strict orders to be back by nine thirty.

The pair had spent remarkably little time together since Myla's return. Even though Mace was technically the head of her security detail, she kept away from the direct proximity of her charge, with the exception on a few wedding-related get-togethers. She was there to help Myla pick a dress, and have dinner with her from time to time, take in a show – but their friendship felt strained at best. Selina hinted that Mace was avoiding any overt niceness or attachment at the risk Myla might vanish again, potentially killed for real.

At least Mace was around.

And the breakfast was definitely the most pleasant interaction they had shared in months. Mace debuted the new hair color she had configured especially for the wedding, which she claimed took her several hours to achieve even with her hair being so short. It was a sort of strawberry blonde color, with the barest hint of her usual pink, and Myla could already tell it was going to look very dreamy when paired with the flowy blush bridesmaid gown she would be wearing later.

"You don't seem very nervous." Mace noted.

Myla shrugged. "I'm not."

"But you don't seem excited either." She continued, raising an eyebrow. "What are you feeling right now, exactly?"

"Very...calm." Myla had had a lot of time to accept this, realizing that she didn't have it in her to remain so full of resentment toward Oswald anymore. She was at peace with the marriage, and he was actually trying to seem better to her. Perhaps not a nicer person, but a better one.

Mace nudged Myla's doughnut plate a little closer to her, slightly annoyed by her lack of eating. "Well...I guess calm is technically supposed to be better than nervous."

Taking the cue, Myla picked up the pastry and took a bite.

"We have to go soon." Mace didn't even want to know the consequences for bring Penguin's bride-to-be home late.

Right. Myla didn't understand why they had to go back to the house, and not just strait to the venue, but she understood that orders were orders for Mace, and buckled Emory back into his car seat.

* * *

Oswald had honored Myla's request to choose the venue, and honestly, he ended up loving it himself. Among many other reasons, he liked the fact that unlike a ballroom in an upscale hotel – as he had originally envisioned – the option to rent out the entire surrounding property for security purposes would be available to him.

Myla considered The Caffrey Estate Garden's to be her favorite place. She always went there on her birthday, as her admission would be free, and everything was all lush and green and blooming. The Rose Pavilion (where the ceremony would be held) in particular was, in her opinion, especially lovely in May.

What she liked best of all about Caffrey Garden's was that it's location. It was thoroughly outside of town – even further than their home in The Palisade's – making for a beautiful, peaceful escape from the city, if only a brief one. A brief escape was exactly what Myla needed.

She and Mace were driven to the Garden's around five hours before the ceremony, since that was apparently how long everyone expected it would take them to get ready. They were shuffled to the far corner of the park, where two houses sat side by side, joined together by a small courtyard. Both were all stone and wood, reminding Myla of storybook cottages in a forest. Inside the one on the left, she found her dress hung up on a chandelier made of gold wires and enamel lilies, with the photographer on the floor taking pictures of it. Celia – their wedding planner – was perched on loveseat in the living room.

"There we are, the beautiful bride-to-be!" Celia was a nice enough woman, but she had this way of always dragging out the last words of her sentences Myla generally found irksome, but she was pretty indifferent toward it today, as it was conceivably the last day they would be personally dealing with one another.

"Yeah. One blushing bride, as requested." Mace said awkwardly, in an attempt to get into the wedding day spirit.

Celia approached the, arms outstretched, as if they were dear friends. "How are you feel, hun? Have you eaten anything yet?"

"About half a donut." Mace answered for her.

"Nerves, huh?" Celia winked. "Do you want a shot? You should get it in now, you know."

Myla walked past them. "No, I'm fine." She laid a blanket down over by the window, out of the way, and set Emory down on it.

"Well that other girl is here somewhere...arrived about twenty minutes ago."

"Fae?" Myla asked.

"Faline – yes that's it. I don't know why I can't ever remember her name."

Myla didn't really understand how either. Wasn't that sort of thing her job?

Fae was, well, Myla hesitated to call her Edward's girlfriend, because it didn't seem that sort of thing exactly. She was an intern of some sort at the GCPD, and they were "involved", and that was really all it took for the poor girl to get drafted into the wedding party. To be perfectly honest, had Myla been in a better state, she would have really liked Fae. She had the same sort of humor and style as Jen, which was something Myla really wanted in a friend nowadays, if she weren't busy being so withdrawn.

"Probably just checking things out." Mace shrugged. "I'll go find her."

After Emory was settled, Celia chatted away about the day's outline, and Myla half-listened. Maybe not even half – Celia would guide her through everything anyway. That was proved when she led Myla to the room upstairs, which contained the lingerie she would wear under her dress, and a robe to wear over that as they got her ready.

Dealing with Celia hadn't been all bossiness and annoyances. Myla had been very insistent on being minimally involved with planning, it didn't stop Celia from texting her all of Oswald's requests to ask her opinion, and her own suggestions. While it got her a touch more involved than she wanted to be, Myla was able to choose things she didn't think would matter until confronted with them – like the music she would walk down the aisle to. Celia also spent nearly a week with a florist, going off nothing but a few scribbles and vague descriptions, to help create an exact replica of the favorite bouquet Myla had received from Oswald. The lady had certainly gone the extra mile for many things – apparently a decadent wedding, no matter the size, is quite a tall order to pull off in just a few months.

Fae and Mace had been stripped down and put in robes of their own by the time Myla rejoined them, and the photographer was off in the corner to snap pictures of a cooing Emory. A few other girls were present as well – girls Myla hadn't become nearly as familiar with, but Oswald had recruited to even up the number of bridesmaids versus groomsmen. Celia settled her into a chair, and Myla felt soft brushes sweeping over her face and hot curlers being rolled into her hair. Oswald – deciding he wanted her to look the complete part of that once precious innocent who walked into his club looking for her cousin – claimed her hair was down and curled the day they met. She believed it, of course, because Oz' memory was about as reliable as they come.

Myla's purse was suddenly thrown into her lap.

"I think I heard your phone buzzing." Fae explained. Looking up, Myla noticed everyone looking at her with concerned expressions, and she realized she must have barely spoken at all since arriving. She made sure to smile and thank Fae before looking through her purse, fingertips brushing against smooth metal. A gift for Oswald. She reached past it to retrieve her phone. It was Myle, wanting to know where she was. Myla quickly answered it, looking up again to see Celia hovering over her.

"Who was that?"

"Just my godfather. The man walking me down the aisle today."

Celia brushed off the slight, smiling brightly in response. "Well if you tell him to come here, we can take photos of you two together in the courtyard."

Should've seen that coming. "Sure." Myla said. "That sounds nice."

"Alright then!" There she went again, dragging out that last letter, as if she were getting paid by the length of her words. "Time to finish getting you ready."

* * *

If you were to ask Myla to tell you about details from her wedding ceremony, she would find herself unable to recall much.

The first thing that would come to mind was the way the photographer scolded her on the way to the ceremony, for looking "terrified".

"You still look beautiful in all these pictures, don't get me wrong," the woman explained, "but nothing about you is reading 'I'm so happy to be getting married today'. Try to give me some of that, okay?"

From the moment Myla stepped off the cart, she worked on channeling all her focus into not looking "terrified". It must have worked, because everyone was always on about how beautiful and happy she looked in their wedding photos, but she had been so consumed with making sure she looked happy and normal, that she had missed on the actual experience of getting married.

She remembered being vaguely aware of her godfather leading her down the aisle, the priests voice that followed was all but a hum in her ears. Oswald stared back at her, calm as ever, which was a surprising comfort, reaffirming that this was the right choice to make. There was a break in the flow when they had to step over to light a candle (she didn't remember being told anything about that), but it quickly went back to holding hands and what she imagined was the only acceptable circumstance for extended eye contact. Her fingers trembled as she slipped on his ring, and he pushed on hers, but thank God she wasn't required to say anything outside of "I do". A quick brush of lips and it was over.

If you asked Myla, she would tell you her wedding ceremony came to a close in what felt like the blink of eye, before she found herself walking back up the aisle holding the hand of her new husband.

They had to stay behind for pictures, while everyone else was taken to the conservatory for the reception. The rapid shrinking of the crowd made her feel a bit better, and the larger scope of Myla's senses began to return to her. She felt her hand being squeezed.

"Is everything alright?"

Even though Myla knew the "right" answer to give, she found herself momentarily unable to speak because she didn't know the truthful answer. Was she okay? She wasn't happy, but she wasn't unhappy. Everything about the day so far had felt just a little...bittersweet, and she didn't know how to handle it.

But he needed an answer. "Yes." She said, offering up a smile. "I guess I just can't believe it."

He smiled back, kissing the back of her hand in what she guessed was his go at a reassuring gesture, instead of offering words.

"Your mother has Emcee, right?"

Oswald did not care for Myla's nickname for their son at all, but fought the urge to frown. Now wasn't the time. "Yes, she does. He'll be fine for another hour."

Myla looked around. They were alone, for the moment. The photographer had forgotten some piece of equipment back in her car, and their wedding party was off "freshening up". Myla figured now was as good a time as any to give him him gift. She reached into the pocket she had sewn into the skirt, hand encasing silver, so cool despite being against her body, in the mild heat.

"Would you close your eyes for a moment?" She asked him.

Oswald looked confused, as she expected, but he obliged easily enough.

The last time Myla had asked that question of Oswald was the day she said she loved him. As she thought about that day now, at this moment, she swore she could see her breath puffing out in misty clouds in front of her, the taste of apple cider caramel on her tongue. Just the thought of those candies made her feel sick now, because she also remembered that not long after that stop was the moment that had changed everything. The figure in the snow. That hunched-over body that had too often haunted her sleep. The first of Oswald's victims she would witness, and the first that she would feel unmistakably, unrelentingly responsible for.

And her hands were shaking all over again.


	40. Chapter 40

_Bound Together_

 _Bound Forever_

Everyone has heard the phrase "marriage is a contract", but Myla was willing to wager that very few people had been the subject of a contract like she had, where her time and personal love life had been drafted up as if she were a child splitting weekends between her parents.

Oswald had effectively "owned" her for a while now, but she felt nothing particularly romantic about the sense that she was his, that she belonged to him. No, the fact of it was not a romantic one at all, but she'd had a lot of time to become comfortable with it, even if it seemed wrong at times.

Myla had chosen Oswald's gift due to the words engraved on it. Though it was more than likely that the inscription had been made with loving intent, it still managed to encapsulate the way she felt about his ownership. The words _Bound Together Bound Forever_ were stark in their statement – there was no flowery speech about it, no offering of love immortal – but it carried a certain weight that spoke to her. It was perfect.

She watched him carefully to make sure his eyes were shut before fulling drawing the gift from the pocket.

Hm. Now that she thought about it, it would seem a bit unceremonious if she were to just plop it strait into his hand. Back in her pocket it went, with a light clink. She reached down and unbuttoned his coat, noticing his face lightly contort with confusion and bemusement, but his eyes remained closed. After pushing it open slightly, she undid the bottom half of the buttons on his vest, only now noticing that it was a deep shade of plum – suddenly remembering that he had worn a similarly colored vest when he first introduced himself. A brief rush of nostalgia washed over Myla, before she pulled out his present again, slipping the bar at the end of the chain though the center buttonhole and placing the actual object into the small compartment on his vest.

"A pocket watch?" The corners of Oswald's lips twitched into a smirk.

"Mhmm." Myla quickly buttoned his vest back up, but left the coat open so he could better retrieve and examine the trinket when she was finished. "I was told it's quite unique."

Some weeks ago, Oswald had sent her off to an antiques shop – one he insisted housed the most rare of collections on the eastern seaboard – to acquire something for his mothers birthday. As a result of the shopping adventure, Gertrud received a Parisian music box, and Oswald was made to tell her it was from both he and Myla so she wouldn't openly criticize it.

"Well, I knew all that money hadn't gone toward a dusty old music box."

"No." Myla grinned back, remembering watching Gertrud struggle to form a compliment that included her son's whore – they had gotten along well for a little while, but the gratitude she had initially extended to Myla for bearing her a grandchild quickly wore itself out. "No, of course not." The watch indeed had cost a pretty penny – especially compared to his mother's gift – but what was the point of having unlimited access to what seemed like limitless cash if you weren't ever going to drop several thousand dollars on a single, small item? That ability seemed like the whole objective of being rich.

Oswald took a minute to study the watch. It was a Patek piece – she had definitely been properly informed on it's rarity – with a black enamel cover and coat of arms containing a crown (he suppressed a chuckle at that). The dial was mother of pearl, the tines a fine, gold filigree, and the and the inscription...he found the message to be equal parts strangely endearing and ominous. A fine wedding present, in all.

"It's exquisite, thank you." Myla looked incredibly relieved by his verdict. Oswald liked that.

The ensuing photo session took quite a while. Much longer than anyone wanted to deal with, but it was especially taxing on Myla, who needed to save all her genuine expressions for the reception. The end of the session didn't offer any relief – they were almost instantly thrown onto a cart afterward, which shuttled them off to the reception.

Throughout the past few months, Celia had endlessly stress that Myla should stand out as a bride. You would think the blue dress would have been more than sufficient enough to accomplish that, but Celia had more than a few tricks up her sleeve to prove Myla wrong.

The Rose Garden had been left alone, for the most part – the existing flowers were enough, and so there were only a few added details to the area, as to not draw peoples attention away from the ceremony. The Conservatory, where the reception was being held, was a different matter entirely. That was the area where Celia transformed Oswald's ridiculous budget into a true spectacle – fabrics draped down from the glass ceilings, towers of added flowers, ornate lanterns and birdcages hung off every branch in the area. There were three cakes nearly as tall as Myla, connected by doll-sized golden staircases, pillars, and waterfalls. Everything was in shades of wine and blush and gold, making Myla the standout Celia pushed for in her dreamy blue dress.

Perhaps it was because they were in an enclosed area, but Myla felt like there was a lot more people now, compared to earlier. It was almost too hard to focus on her first dance with Oswald. Due to his leg, their dance was basically a prom shuffle – mindless movement – and despite the crowd, distractions seemed to be in limited supply. Counting steps and the measures of the piano weren't enough. The remainder of the reception promised to be an extreme and inescapable social experience that Myla had been stressed about for weeks, and so far living it was much worse than she had prepared herself to handle.

The music changed, and Myle took Oswald's place. He asked if she was okay, but the most "convincing" thing she could pull off was a nod.

"You seem a little down right now."

Myla's mind blanked for half a second, cruelly reminded how badly she was failing at all of this.

"I know I shouldn't say anything that will make you cry off all that lovely makeup, but," Myle smiled down at her sadly, "I can tell you really miss your parents right now."

Well, now she did. To be honest, her mother and father had always felt more like vague entities rather than people, and as such she hadn't given them an awful lot of thought during the whole wedding process. However, at Myle's mention, she realized that in some alternate life, she could have been watching her inherited green eyes staring back at her right now instead of her godfather's hazel ones. It was a strange thing to be aware of.

"They would have been so proud of you today, Myla."

Although she doubted that very much, Myla was very thankful for his provision of a more acceptable excuse to use the next time someone mentioned she looked upset, so she thanked him and smiled.

The music stopped, and Myla was handed off again, back to Oswald.

"Do you think there's bit of time in the schedule for a small break? I'd like to check on Emory."

"I don't see why not." Oswald smiled. "Would you like me to come along with you?"

"Celia would probably lose her head if we both leave." Myla insisted gently. "I just want to make sure he was able to get his nap."

"Take Mace with you, at least. I know it's our wedding, but..." His voice trailed off, not wanting to spoil it by pointing out bluntly that the rest of their lives would be at best partially spent wondering if today was the day someone would set out to destroy them.

Myla leaned forward, gifting him with a quick but warm kiss. "I know."

Noticing Oswald's gesture to her, Mace kept the now-cursory ten step pace behind Myla on the pathway back to the dressing cottages. Once inside, she snatched a bottle of champagne off the table and went upstairs. Using her free hand to knock on the door, the one holding the bottle became covered in the fabric of the skirt.

"Katie?"

The nanny beamed at her when she opened the door. "Hello _Mrs. Cobblepot_ "

Myla half-smiled in return, glancing down to make sure the bottle was still covered by her dress. "Did Emory nap?"

"Mhm. All this excitement tuckered him right out."

"Good, good. Why don't you take a ten minute break while I...also take a ten minute break."

Kate nodded. "Okay, I'll go downstairs and make myself some lunch, then."

"Thank you, Kate." Myla sidestepped to make room in the hallway.

Mace shut the door behind them, keeping a wary eye on Myla as she opened the bottle and took and drink. "You got one intense party going on back there."

Myla made a face, looking around for an actual glass to pour another drink into. "No kidding. I felt like I was being suffocated."

"I'm sure the twenty pounds of hair extensions isn't helping."

Myla laughed at the comment.

"Wasn't that funny."

"I never really asked." Myla had been afraid to ask, but now was as good a time as any. "What all happened while I was gone?"

Mace shifted uncomfortable for a moment. "Honestly – and I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings or anything – but nothing really happened."

"Nothing." Myla repeated.

"I mean, you already know how Jasmine wrecked Talov's when she heard you were dead, and the cops fished around for a bit – but you were never officially reported, and your family didn't bury you."

One of the ill benefits Mace had gained from Victor's company was the retention of that teenage state of mind – the one where you have very little concept of a life separate from your own. Mace had never been very intuitive when it came to the feelings of others, and had taken on a life in which she was not obligated to learn to do so. Deep down she was more than aware that Myla was the one having the worse time of the two – hell, Myla was probably having it worse than she had during her initiation period with Zsasz – but that hadn't stop Mace from privately, selfishly insisting her hurt feelings outweighed nine months of total isolation, and a presumably unwanted child and marriage.

But even Mace could tell when she was acting too spoiled.

"I'm sorry, by the way." The words felt foreign to say – it had been a while since Mace felt like she had anything to apologize for. "I know this year has been shit for you."

"Thanks." Ideally, Myla would have like to offer up a speech about how much Mace meant to her, but her voice was started to break just by uttering that single word, and Myla knew that one tear was all it would take for the floodgates to open and a whole crew of people to get upset over having to redo a solid hours worth of makeup.

"We should get back to your wedding now." Mace was sure to enunciate those words: "your wedding", hoping to kick her friend into adopting a less somber attitude.

With a deep exhale, Myla patted Emory's head again and backed away. Back to Bridal Mode, time to fire up the smile everyone always loved her for – including Oswald. Her husband, Oswald. Father of her child, Oswald. He needed that performance the most.

They were bound together now, after all.

Bound forever.


	41. Chapter 41

**FOUR YEARS LATER**

* * *

While it wasn't a life she particularly enjoyed, Myla didn't challenge it. She wasn't always happy, but she never let it show. There were times she wanted very much to end it, but didn't dare to act on that feeling.

Emory made up for most of these things. He would look at her, with his stormy eyes and solemn expression – much more solemn than any almost-four year old ought to have, to be honest – and Myla would feel not exactly as if everything were okay, but that it could be. It might be.

But if she were to exclude her son, life had otherwise felt like a never-ending loop of a news interview featuring the neighbors of a recently jailed serial killer. "He seemed so nice!" they all exclaim, mentioning that though the person had a few quirks, they had otherwise appeared to be completely average. They aren't trying to defend the person's actions – of course they aren't – but they are attempting to defend themselves. No one appreciates the knowledge that they have made a wrong assumption of someone's character, and if you look closely enough, it's plain to see that they are holding far more disgust for themselves than fear regarding the neighbor.

It was that sort of attitude about her marriage that made life feel unbearable, especially when she was made to play witness to both sides of the coin every day. There was Oswald Cobblepot – a fairly decent husband, as well as a father who displayed the purest form of love and affection toward his child. Then there was Penguin – the ruthless gang lord. The man who stumbled into their bedroom late at night, with bourbon and cigars on his breath and blood on his suit. The blood was never his.a

"Momma."

Abruptly yanked from her dark thoughts, Myla looked down next to her and smiled. "What is it, sweet prince?"

"You said we'd bake today." Emory's eyes shone with a much brighter expression than the rest of his face could convey, and Myla always wondered guiltily if it was that way because of her.

"I did." She agreed. "What would you like to make?"

"Poppa said uncle's coming over today."

Myla held back a grimace. "You want to make something special for uncle Eddie?"

Emory nodded quickly.

"And what do you think Eddie would like?"

The boy took a moment to think. Figuring out the perfect treat for Edward was decidedly serious business. "Scones." He finally settled on. "Cause we always have tea when he's here."

Myla got up from her seat, outstretching her hand for her son to take. "Then we'll make scones."

In the kitchen, she hoisted Emory onto the counter, soon surrounding him with all the ingredients. She preheated the oven, and handed him the stack of measuring cups. Emory was completely focused on filling them the precise amount, making even less of a mess than Myla usually would. Once he was done, she gave him everything for the glaze while she brought the dough together. It was quiet work. Myla had never imagined life with a young child could be so quiet.

Emory set the bowl aside when he was done and, legs crossed, elbows on knees, chin resting on hands, he watched her. Always the observant one, noticing how slow his mother was to put her ring back on after she washed her hands. He was so much like his father in this way, and it scared Myla more than she cared to admit. But at least he didn't quite know what to do with the things he learned – yet. That sort of finesse in exploitation was beyond him for the time being, so it was easy for Myla to accept it as a personality quirk, to smile through it while she tucked a stand of hair behind his ear before she set him back on the ground again.

"You have a little flour on your clothes, dear." She informed him. "Why don't you go change before Eddie gets here."

"Okay, momma."

She gathered up all the dirtied bowls and utensils and placed them in the sink. Might as well wash them. The poor maid had enough to do just cleaning up the rage-fueled aftermath of most meetings in the conference room.

Myla suppressed a yelp when she felt a hand on her shoulder. No matter how careful Oswald was on his attempts not to startle her, it couldn't be helped that his wife was so "spacey". At least she hadn't yelled this time, as it didn't exactly look good on him for everyone to hear his wife make a noise like that every other time he entered a room with her.

With her aware of his presence, Oswald took a casual pose against the counter.

"What's that in the oven?"

"Emory wanted to make scones for Edward." Myla informed him stiffly. She supposed it wasn't his fault that she was such an easy scare, but she still hated when he did that.

Oswald smiled. "What a thoughtful boy."

Myla's voice became a bitter mumble. "Yes, he loves his Eddie."

"He also loves you." Oswald's hands rested on her her waist, while the warmth of his lips pressed against her neck. "And I love you, you know."

Touching, but not what she needed at the moment. "Noooot now." She tried to sound playful, but it came out a half-hiss anyway.

Myla could feel his smirk searing itself into her skin. He enjoyed her resistance, and making her fold. "Why not?" His voice sounded pouty, almost innocent as his fingers traced their way up her thigh.

"Emory will be looking for you in a minute." Their son was so proud of how well he could dress by himself now, and absolutely relished in hearing his father's approval for his outfits.

Oswald let out a soft huff into her shoulder. "Later, then." He nipped at her skin before standing upright, as if that in itself sealed the promise of "later".

* * *

The beloved normalcy which Myla had so craved to return to her did manage to come back in bits and pieces. Slowly but surely, things because established, or otherwise predictable routines, which is why she knew to expect Oswald's text just after eight thirty that night to tell her that Emory had fallen asleep in the study with him and Edward.

They moved Emory over to his bed together, said goodbye to Edward, performed separate activities for a couple more hours, and both retired to their room at around eleven for bed. They picked outfits for the following day, brushed their teeth, went over schedules...Apparently, marriage has its unremarkable, painfully average moments, whether you're married to a crime lord or an accountant.

Before flipping her planner shut, Myla stared down the red dot in upper corner of Tuesday. Two days late. Not terribly unusual – especially with the holiday and birthday party stress – but still nerve-wracking. She went back to the bathroom. Kneeling down, Myla opened the cabinet, shoving the towels to the side, and wedged her fingernails under the plywood to remove the bottom. Inside were two boxes of pregnancy tests, one opened, and a disposable flip phone containing no saved numbers.

Myla had gotten back on birth control for a time, until she got pregnant again two years ago. That child was unfortunately lost, and even though Emory had been somewhat similarly conceived and turned out more than fine, Oswald was adamant that it occurred due to her prescription. After some half-assed research and citing unreliable sources, he decided the pill was dangerous, and "ordered" her to stop taking it. Clearly, it wouldn't have been worth it to take the pill behind his back, but it did help that after the ordeal, Oswald remained quite content with Emory being an only child – content enough to be more careful than he had been when he supposedly didn't want any children whatsoever. Even so, every once in while Myla got paranoid, and it was nice to have a test around to put those fears to bed whenever she found herself a day late or otherwise didn't feel right.

The tests had had nothing to report over the last couple of years. It became so routine and familiar for her to see those tiny blue negatives in the windows that she scarcely felt compelled to give this particular one a second glance before going to stash it. Except this time, she did, and took a double take.

A blue minus…a blue plus. Clearly a very different result than she had anticipated, or wanted.

As if on cue, Oswald called out her name from the bedroom, startling her enough to drop the test. She picked it back up and hid it in the cabinet. There was an attempt to will herself to stop shaking once she stood back up.

Some five years ago, it had been well accepted that Myla was not one for hiding feelings – or anything else, really. There was no such exception today. Previously, in times like this, it helped Myla to imagine herself as a statue. _Stone and marble, cold and unfeeling_ was her mantra. With this mindset in place, she allowed herself one more single, shaking breath before re-entering the bedroom.

"Remind me," Oswald was already settle and in pajamas, as if he had forgotten about his promised tryst with her amongst the other events of the day, "which toys in the closet are birthday gifts, and which are for Christmas?"

"Just the puppet stand and Dracula costume are the birthday presents – that's all he asked us for." Myla added sternly, and was very pleased with how at ease and normal she sounded. "The playhouse, and everything else is for Christmas. You should probably ask Butch or Gabe to set the playhouse up soon, by the way."

"Of course, of course..." His gaze followed her keenly while she set things here and there – phones to chargers, switching on the alarm for the morning. "Why Dracula, again?"

"He just really likes vampires right now, dear. Isn't it typical for boys to have their monster-obsessed phases?"

"I suppose I should appreciate that he chose the monster who wears a suit."

Suppressing a snort and an added stab about Emory's adoration for monsters in suits, Myla simply nodded in agreement. "And that's exactly what it is, Oz. Just a fancy little suit from your tailor, with an added cape."

That seemed to make it all the more acceptable to Oswald. "Hm."

Myla paused before getting into bed with him, to place her ring snugly on the spout of her mothers silver teapot.

"So I shouldn't get him anything else for his birthday?"

There was only one sort of thing Myla was really against her son having. "As long as it's not a gun."

"Is it r _eally_ a gun if it shoots foam darts?" He half-teased.

"If the thing that shoots them is shaped like a gun, yes." She was surprised that he didn't just think to buy the toy and have someone else give it to their son.

A little taken aback by her brusqueness, Oswald asked if she was alright.

"Just a busy month and all. I already feel partied out." It was mostly true. Aside from their own, there were at least eight other holiday parties they were expected to at the very least drop by. "Dropping by" usually meant staying for a few hours at minimum. Emory wasn't young enough to use as an excuse for her to bail on social functions anymore.

"Well there's nothing next month."

"Your birthday." She reminded

"February then. Nothing there, right?"

She sighed softly. Of course there were things for them to do in February – there had been no such thing as a month free from functions or parties for over three years – but Myla could appreciate Oswald's effort, at least a little bit.

And he really was such a good father – Myla still found herself consistently surprised by Oswald's aptitude at parenthood. He never turned his son away, he would read to him, and played with him…

Maybe she would tell him.

She really did give a moment a serious thought – until the memory of The Bunker came crashing back. Myla hadn't gotten far enough into her last pregnancy for them to really decide on anything, but she was almost positive the miscarriage was probably due to the stress of wondering if she would be sent back to The Bunker. For obvious reasons, neither were experiences she was keen on repeating ever again.

"Do you ever think about Emory's future?"

Oswald cracked a small smile. "Is that what this about? How fast Emory is growing up?"

Myla didn't answer.

"Of course I think about Emory's future – I think about it all the time." Oswald reached over to squeeze his wife's hand. "But there's nothing to worry about. I'm not going anywhere, we're doing very well – in twenty-odd years, Emory will be me, and you and I will be relaxing in our future European vacation home."

"Emory...will be you?" Myla didn't very much like the idea of her son inheriting Oswald's life. "You don't think he'll want to do something else?"

"I'm looking to establish a family business, Myla – a dynasty – and he's my son." He said simply, as if that were the only explanation in the world that mattered. "Even at this age he appears to understand and want that."

"He's four – all he wants in life right now is our approval." Myla couldn't tell if this conversation was overdue, or years before its time.

"Four and unusually bright and responsible, regardless." Oswald pointed out. "Myla, you've known for a while now that I've meant to establish my family in Gotham. Please don't act like you haven't."

"Then don't act like it's unusual for me to not want Emcee to be you."

Wrong choice of words. Her sentence sucked the very life from the room. Myla paled and waited, watching Oswald closely and bracing for the backlash.

There was none.

"Emory is going to grow up." Oswald said calmly. "He has a set place in life, that I plan to guide him toward – understand?"

His words held more threat than promise, and Myla felt it was best not to respond. She may have not meant to admit what she said, but she did mean them. God, she meant them. This hadn't been the first time she had imagined or feared Emory growing up to be like his father – using whatever unholy means it took to keep his place at the top. It was a hard thought to stomach – one that Myla knew deep down she didn't ever want to see happen.

If Oswald's plan for their children was so rooted in the violent legacy he had built for himself, she wasn't sure she wanted to give him another.


	42. Chapter 42

There is always some portion of relationships – no matter how small – which actively thrives on secrecy. Myla's relationships were no exception in any party: not familial, in friendship, or on romantic fronts.

Myla was never aware of any deep reason for why her guardians treated her so different. She never found the reason behind Mace's pink hair, or the extent to which she really enjoyed her "work". Secrets between Myla and Oswald were too numerous to list, but above all else, she never quite knew what made her husband the way he was.

As for Oswald, he didn't know that there was an actual planned effort to his wife's sudden and mysterious departure. Or, at least, he maintained a very convincing state of denial over it through the years.

But that was later.

Because for now, Myla was very much there with him, in his office, as he mulled over a thought which had frequently passed through his mind over the last few years – his decision to place her in The Apartment. In all that time, and the time since, Oswald would never be able to say for sure if her stay there had truly been for the best, but whether it had been the safest option or not, the choice had slightly haunting repercussions all the same. Those were months he and Myla would never get back – days that should have been spent arguing the color of the nursery, running to town to get her ice cream during the bleak hours of the morning, and lazy afternoons with his ear pressed against her belly, waiting to feel a kick. The experience of waiting for their first child had escaped him, and left him with a very awful, guilty feeling. Emory was growing up so fast now – four years had come and gone in the blink of an eye – and while Oswald believed himself to be a very adept and loving father, he also knew just how much effort he had put forth in his marriage. It was especially obvious on days like these to see how much Myla hadn't recovered.

Since their son's birth and her subsequent return to the house, it had become an increasing habit of Myla's to spend her free time in front of windows. Previously, Oswald had rather liked the way she looked out of windows. She would have this particular, dreamy expression when she did so, occasionally crossed with a far-off sadness that was, in its own way, very precious to him. When she came back from the apartment, though, that expression was changed, and she began moving from room to room, tying back curtains and spending time with each opening. He tried asking why, and if there was anything wrong, to which Myla reminded him – very pointedly, by the way – that there had just been a space in her life filled with moments where she had felt certain she would never look behind a curtain to see more than a light fixture.

Oswald didn't ask again. _Point taken_ , he thought to himself. Harold had warned him of this type of thing. Several times, actually. For a while she went to therapy as per Sheldrew's suggestion, but there was never a guarantee that things would ever return to the way they were.

But, Oswald's most glaring mistake in his marriage was choosing to interpret a lack of open distress as a sign of contentment. A few quirks, abet slightly disturbing ones, were nothing in the grand scheme of things – Myla never said anything about being unhappy, and that was "good enough". They had had a child together, they were married, and she expressed very little desire to do very much of anything. Even if she had been more vocal of her dissatisfaction, Oswald didn't feel even the barest hint of concern on the subject of his wife leaving.

Why should he have? A look up from his desk would show him Myla, still on the edge of his study, gripping onto the curtains in a way as if she were relying on them just to keep her standing. Her body was completely tense, and while he noticed there was more focus in her gaze on the courtyard below, it was such a small note of determination in what was otherwise a living example of pity.

"Is it snowing yet?" Oswald kept his voice low, as to not startle her.

"A little." Myla said softly. She turned her head for a moment while her eyes narrowed in on a specific tree. There was an ornament on it. One, red ornament. That was it. "Are you busy the rest of the day?"

"A few phone calls, nothing that should take too long." As long as none of those calls yielded anything of interest, anyway. "Did you want to make plans for tonight? There's time to make a reservation."

"I don't really want to go out…but we could have a movie night. Maybe watch It's a Wonderful Life." The timing couldn't have lined up more perfectly – the house was mostly empty, it was getting to be Christmastime, and they were due for a blizzard. On a night like this, Myla could always count on Oswald to get swept up in the nostalgia of their first night together. Even awful people have soft spots for fond memories.

She watched her husband smirk, knowing he was remembering everything – his lust and her red dress. "You hate that movie."

"But I've never hated getting drunk and making out on the couch."

Oswald paused. Myla had been especially distant since their brief spat over Emory's inevitable future. She had become so much harder to read, and even harder to please after disagreements. Based on that, it would be unwise to pass up this opportunity. "I'm all yours tonight."

"I'll get everything set up, then." Myla shut the curtains, noticing a slight tremble in her hand. So many more secrets.

"I shouldn't be more then twenty minutes, dear."

"Twenty minutes." She repeated. Myla walked behind his desk to gave him a quick kiss on the forehead on her way out. "I'll see you there."

The was an almost audible tick in her head as she began her walk down the hall. Twenty minutes wasn't an awful lot of time for what she needed to do.

Just outside the kitchen, there was a little nook with a wall of exposed brick. Myla wedged her fingertips in-between them, trying to find the spot in the mortar that she had been shown years before. There – it had to be pressed down pretty hard, but eventually it gave way, and the wall opened up about a foot. This spot had apparently been made for things to pass through, rather than people, but Myla could slide in with ease. Arms outstretched, she ran down down the steps and through the darkness. She mumbled the simple directions to her destination: _right, right, left, right,_ until she hit another wall. Slightly open, as promised. A familiar figure was inside to greet her, in an all-to-familiar space.

Selina had appeared during Myla's time in The Apartment where she feared she was losing her mind. Once back on the surface, with Emory in her arms, it had been nothing short of the greatest blessing to discover Selina was real. To be introduced formally and watch others in the house interact with the little thief.

Although you couldn't quite regard Selina as "little" anymore. Without her boots, she and Myla had stood nearly face to face those four years ago – now she stood several inches taller. Today, she nodded at Myla, snapping her gum as she watched the woman close the wall panel behind her. It was unnerving for Myla to be in this place again, but it was the safest place they knew of to meet.

"I tried very hard to spot you this time." Myla attempted to sound jokey, to ward of the anxiety this space brought her. She had only been back a few times, but each time she always found herself overwhelmed with dread, wondering when she would find herself back in this tastefully decorated hellhole for good.

"I'm just that awesome." Selina was – the simple red ornament they had agreed upon for their signal had practically materialized on the tree near the garden entrance. "So what's the deal – why am I here?"

In all the time Selina had kept the emergency disposable phone Myla had given her, this was the first time it had actually been used. The occasion was exciting, but also nerve-wracking.

By comparison, Myla made no efforts to be sly in her reasoning; she got to the point. "I need passports for me and Emory."

The chewing noise from Selina stopped abruptly. "Why?"

"It's just...time."

"Okay, well..." Selina's mind raced with questions, mixed in with how she would pull off such a feat when the woman she spoke to had a husband who was involved in literally _everything_. "Why not have your lovergirl do this – she has more connections with that type of business."

Myla shook head. "Molly isn't right for this job. You are."

"Because you're not telling her, are you?"

There was no time for this – the clock was ticking - Myla wasn't about to let Selina shift the subject. "She and I have always known we couldn't keep it going forever."

"Yeah, she knows one day the risk will outweigh the benefit – not that one day she'll wake up and you'll be gone. Again." Selina reminded her.

That was definitely going to a major source of guilt Myla had been preparing herself for, but _timing_. "I never said it was ideal."

Selina shrugged. "It all seems like the same risk to me."

"Are you forgetting someone? Like Victor Zsasz?" Selina should have known as well as anyone that Oswald would have a finite amount of time, money, and manpower to find them without sacrificing his "throne". If Mace joined them? Victor would have no qualms about dropping everything, hunting them to the ends of the earth. He would undoubtedly find them within weeks, and Myla was looking to disappear, rather than take a "vacation".

"Alright, point taken – but still - why now? I thought things were good between you guys? Did Penguin hurt you or something."

"No," Myla admitted, "he hasn't hurt me, but I still need to leave."Afftet

"Sooo who's the stupid one here, then?" Something had to have happened to spark this sudden occurrence. There was no way. "The apprehensive thief, or the woman living in a damn mansion, with more money than she will ever need, and a...weird, but otherwise okay husband. Seriously, what's the problem?"

"Naivete isn't a good look on you, Selina." Myla kept her words sharp, trying not to ramble. "Let me ask you this: is a man who doesn't beat his wife automatically a good man? Does being a good father magically erase his body count? No, it doesn't, and I don't want to raise my children in this place, with that man." She been going through the motions with Oswald, because of Selina's exact line of thinking - "he's so good to us, we're taken care of, he keeps us safe" – but it was all going to come at a cost. One day she would wake up with children taught to think it's acceptable to shoot people in their way. One day they would get brought in, in some twisted "take your child to work day" type of fashion, to the docks where Oswald and Butch slaughtered loan deficitaries and squealers. It would happen eventually. Already Emory asked what type of work his father did, sometimes begging Oswald to bring him along into town for business. It wasn't bound to happen anytime soon, but it would come to pass sooner than she wanted, for as long as she continued her routine of complacency. The idea of her children purposely raised with Oswald's lack of moral compass had always been a terrifying, backseat thought, but she had been denying the reality of it until now.

Selina at first went to answer, but paused. "Child- _ren_?"

"Of course that's what you got from everything I said." Since Selina wasn't apt to become sympathetic if she confirmed it, Myla didn't bother to. "I need them soon. Can you do it?"

"For good fakes..." Selina sucked in her breath. She didn't want to make any false promises. "I'll have to go out of town," and maybe kill someone, but Myla was better off not knowing that, "sooooo...two weeks."

"Thank you." Myla pulled who Selina down for a quick hug, which Selina begrudgingly allowed.

"Well, I _have_ owed you a favor."

Unfortunately, that wouldn't be the only favor Myla needed.


	43. Chapter 43

While being unmatched in your profession is always considered ideal, being at the top of your game often means becoming unchallenged, and being unchallenged can cause a man to lose his edge. The dip in vigilance causes things to slip past your notice. It's been so long since it's gone anything less than smoothly, your team gets lazy. For example – a thing like inventory might be done less often, as it's been so long since anyone has dared steal from you.

This is how Myla was able to obtain a gun from the Manor's "mini-armory" with complete ease. The watchmen were on their phones – none of them were even stationed at the entryways. Selina said it was the most ideal situation they could have hoped for. Initially, Myla was feeling good about how well it went, but after Selina was gone, the gun suddenly seemed to weigh on her that much more. She had never held a gun before – hell, before Oswald, she had been blessed enough to have never seen a gun outside of A television screen. After Oswald, it was no surprise that Myla hadn't the slightest desire to be on either end of a gun.

There's a first time for everything.

Back upstairs, Myla gave a gun another once-over, imaging what it would feel like to use it. She hoped she wouldn't have to – if everything went according to plan, she wouldn't – it was a simple precaution. A "better to have it and not need it" sort of acquirement, like a bringing a light sweater with you to the park on a mild day. It was the final piece in her grand escape set, and now all that was left was when, which now became a question much trickier than everything else combined.

It wasn't an option to leave on Emory's birthday, obviously: people would be paying all of them too much attention, and not to mention it would be kind of cruel. Would it be just cruel to leave before Christmas? Well, if she stayed for Christmas, she may as well stay a couple weeks extra for Oswald's birthday. But then what about Valentines? And their anniversary? Myla reminded herself again of the time constraint she was facing. It may have taken nearly 30 weeks with Emory for her to look pregnant with a human rather than a burrito, but she could still show with this one any day. She was already feeling sicker with this child, so it stood to reason that she could show earlier. Although, maybe that was just nerves. Or guilt.

There shouldn't have been anything to feel guilty about. Oswald killed people, practically for sport. He ran drug rings and illegal weapons sales, loan sharking operations and a plenty of other equally terrible things – any one of which rationalized her decision to leave by itself. There was no reason for her to find herself wide awake at night...fretting over her criminal husband's impending loneliness. This was just a house, and he was just a bad man. A man that she stayed with in spite of his dark reveal. That she married, and celebrated milestones with, and shared losses and other experiences that entwined their lives together in ways that Myla would never forget as long as she lived.

Distancing herself from this life seemed impossible – the more she tried to pull away, coupled with the longer she stayed, made Myla feel that much more for everything. Oswald would never be just a "bad man": he would be her first love, and the father of her children. The more she stayed the more she looked back, desperate to convince herself that there had been more good in their relationship than bad. Myla wondered if it was at all possible that she could ignore the parts of his life that didn't involve her, and that could be enough.

And it wasn't just a house. Not just a place, but the couch where she swore what she was beginning to feel for Oswald was love, and the kitchen where he asked her to move in, the desk in his study. It was where Emory was born, Emory's room, and all the areas where he learned to walk, talk, and speak.

There was Gotham itself. A city that she spent a solid two decades believing there was more good in the world in than evil. What a learning experience that was.

"I have to go." Myla whispered to herself. She wrapped the gun in a scarf, carefully placing it in one of her least favorite purses. "I have to go. I have to go. _We need to go_." Saying it actually out loud did strengthened her resolve.

She froze when she heard the bedroom door open. Oswald wasn't supposed to be home for hour. It was too much for her to act fine for him after she had just just hid a gun – a gun stolen from his basement armory, no less.

"Mrs. C?"

"Butch." Myla tried not to sound so relieved. "Christ, you scared me."

"Oh, sorry."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." She lied. "What is it?"

"I was just wondering if you wanted the tree in the same spot as last year."

The tree. Last year Myla started what she had hoped would be a longstanding tradition of decorating the Christmas tree on Emory's birthday. Knowing how different things would be for them next Christmas felt like a pin being shoved strait into her heart.

"Um," her voice sounded shakier than she wanted it to, "wait until they get back. Emcee might want it somewhere else."

Butch had never failed to impressed Myla with his rather remarkable sense of empathy – especially for someone who had logged in quite a few hours holding chainsaws to limbs. "Is everything alright here?"

Yes, I'm just kind of… it's just the holidays." The perfect excuse for anything from November to January. "We used to do so much stuff for the holidays. The baking, the shopping, the Pajama Jam...Do you have family, Butch?"

"Uh, yeah." Butch shifted in the spot he stood. He may have offered kindness, but wasn't always used to having people take him up on it."Yeah, I got family."

"Sometimes it's like Oswald forgets I have a family still, and that I might like to see them sooner than twenty years from now."

"Isn't your family all in the city?"

She and Oswald had actually just sent out Christmas cards to Jasmine and her former guardians: a tradition that bordered more on taunting than the desire to spread holiday cheer. Those cards were currently their only correspondence they had shared since Emory's birth: "Merry Christmas from the Cobblepots". Myla's expression soured at the thought of crawling back to them. "Those people aren't my family anymore."

"Harsh."

"But not the harshest thing you've ever heard, I'll bet." Myla said wryly. I'm just done with this town. I'm sick of this house. I want to remember what it's like to be around people who haven't been paid to be there." And that was enough. "Anyway, sorry for unloading on you, but the person I should say this to would just call me a child and walk off."

Butch did still look fairly uncomfortable with the personal level of marriage problems he had just been subjected to hear, but kept it professional, as always. "It's fine."

"Thanks." Myla smiled brightly up at him. "You'll keep this to yourself, won't you?"

They both knew he wouldn't. Butch was incapable of keeping anything from his boss.

"Of course."

* * *

Myla could always tell Oswald's mood based on his footsteps. The limp was always more pronounced when he was seething, resulting in sharp, uneven raps against the hardwood. Usually she wouldn't hear him until he had reached the hallway, but when he was angry she could hear him coming all the way from the conference room – the place where bad news in all aspects was introduced.

There it went: tap, _stomp_ , tap, _stomp_ , tap, _stomp_. Maybe she would open up the argument with a dig about prematurely wearing out his fancy shoes.

The stairs we an amusing bit, because he could never ascend them with the furious pace his foul mood required of him, but he made it. Myla closed her eyes. She could practically feel the reverberation of that leather slap sounding off in the hallway as he approached their bedroom.

Oswald had learned by now that he couldn't always simply open a door and start yelling – not with Myla, not his wife. Instant yelling resulting in her closing herself off at best, crying at worst. Just sitting there and crying, and although a victory by default is still a victory, a crying wife does not ever feel like a "win", no matter how you put it. He paused outside their door to collect himself, attempting to sober up his thoughts with how it was sort of shameful for him to have to set a goal to not make Myla cry, and it worked just barely well enough to feel less of the need to yell.

While he took his minute of composure, Myla calmly got up from her vanity and walked silently to the bed, where she had earlier laid out a couple dresses. She posed herself as if she had been spending time attempting to choose between them. When the door opened, she glanced back, and spoke with a tone that showed just how much she didn't care about his still obviously angry expression.

"I think I'll go with this gold-ish on one." The color was champagne and she knew it, but it was fun to watch Oswald flinch at the mislabel."Red is too predictable for a Christmas party, I think."

There was once a time when Oswald would work up to an argument – back when he presumed her to be in too delicate a frame of mind to handle anything going wrong. This was no longer a thing. "I don't want to discuss personal issues with anyone anymore."

Myla calmly picked up the red dress to take back to the closet."Why not?"

Oswald swore to God people in this house judged him more on his abilities within his personal life more than anything. "Because it isn't their business." He said sharply. "And might I just say how amusing I find it that you can talk to everyone in this house about our problems except with me?"

"You might." She walked past him. "I could attempt to find other people to talk to about you. Perhaps even people you don't know."

"You know I don't appreciate when you talk to others like you're a prisoner here." Wrong choice of words. "I realize that sounds a touch hypocritical-"

"Just a smidge."

"-But," Oswald said rather sternly in the face of her interruption, "You're not a hostage here now. You can leave the house, acquire some hobbies, meet new people, and have a life outside raising Emory."

He said his piece as if this were a Brand New Thing that had never crossed Myla's mind before. As if every time she had strayed from her role as Mrs. Cobblepot – the dutiful, silent, pretty wife and mother – there wasn't some reprimand attached. What was she thinking leaving Emory for so long? How could she let something like painting get in the way of preparing for an important party? Didn't she remember that any friend she dared try to make outside of her husband's approved circle could be someone sent to destroy them? Most of the time, it was simpler to let him talk. She would nod and agree while thinking about the snack she would retrieve from the kitchen he was finished. Everything would wrap up in ten, maybe fifteen minutes or so as long as she didn't say anything back.

The hidden last slice of Emory's chocolate birthday cake could wait, though.

"You're doing it again." Those words were basically akin to picking up a brick with the intention of throwing it through a window.

"What?"

The brick was flying, careening through the air. "Talking to me like a child and not your wife."

Oswald gave her an indignant look. "Act like an adult and you'll be treated like one."

"I'm sorry, did you marry and adult or did you marry a child?" Contact. Shatter.

"Myla-"

"No, answer me. Did you marry an _adult_ or did you marry a _child_ " Myla asserted. "I'm your wife. I shouldn't have to constantly prove to you that I'm worth treating an adult – because you know who you married."

"An adult doesn't spout off to others about problems she has with her husband." He retorted.

"Venting to people about your spouse is literally a cornerstone of American marriage – and I would have less to vent about if you didn't shut me down and call 'child' every time I did something you didn't like."

It was starting to get very hard not to yell now. Oswald could hardly remember the last time she had fought back like this. Years, probably. And as he stood there, wanting to yell, Myla prepared herself for it.

This fight was her parting gift.

She wanted Oswald to have a lot to think about while he was lonely.


	44. Chapter 44

There was a very predictable outcome to fights between the Cobblepots: Oswald always presumed he won every fight, no matter what. The overly haughty attitude would cause Myla to sulk. Things would eventually build up again, Myla would snap, the fight would arise once more. Before they knew it, the cycle was repeating itself in an endless routine of passive aggression.

Emory's party had been a struggle, in which they had barely pulled it together long enough to get the candles on the cake. At one point, Oswald made up a flimsy "business" excuse so he could leave for a couple hours. On their son's birthday, the two of them had broken the simplest rule – the only rule, really – that they had for their marriage: that their son was more important. Myla decided that day that she could no longer allow their petty argument cycle to reach its peak. Meaning she definitely needed to leave sooner than later.

Myla crouched down to fasten the strap on her heel. The pressure it put on her belly burned. She had been cramping lately, causing some panic, but she kept assuring herself that it wasn't like….the last time.

"I'm going to say goodnight to Emcee before we go, if you'd like to tuck him in."

Oswald gave her a quick glance through the mirror, before returning to his own reflection to straiten his cravat. "I would. Just give me a moment."

"Okay." Myla carefully stood up, tugging the dress back down her hips. It was much more snug than it had been even just a few days ago. Definitely running out of time. The trip to her sons room was delayed by a detour to the kitchen. Emory never did appreciate being left out of parties, but could always be pacified with hot chocolate. She heated up a small mug, with a capful of cream and a drop of peppermint. Exactly how he liked it.

Almost.

Inside her son's bedroom, she was greeted with a very dejected-looking preschooler, wrapped up in his Dracula cape. Emory had worn the cape every single day since receiving the gift, refusing to part with it unless he was dead asleep.

Myla held out the mug. "Ready for bed, little prince?"

Emory was sure to first show disprovable toward her offering. "It's _dark_ prince." He corrected.

"I'm sorry you can't come to the party."

"You should be." Her son replied sternly. "Vampires are very good party guests."

"Of course they are, but this is party for humans." She offered him the cocoa again, and he took it. "But vampires will be welcome at our party next weekend."

"Papa won't get busy again, will he?"

"Of course not." For a moment, Myla was almost thankful to hear Oswald's voice coming from the doorway. Even though she really didn't want to apologize on his behalf for the birthday disappearance again, she couldn't help but get annoyed at the way Emory's face brightened at the sight of his father. It was very unfair how her husband could do something so much more messed up than she would dare to pull, and be forgiven three times as quickly. Oswald brushed off his wife's sharp glare and sat on the edge of the bed, next to his child.

"The whole day is going to be about movies, singing songs and baking Santa cookies. I promise." Oswald smiled down at his boy. "None of the boring stuff that will be at this party we have to go to."

"Okay." Emory nodded, taking a final drink of his cocoa before handing the mug back to his mother. "As long as you promise." He laid down, and Oswald covered their son up with the blanket, like he had hundreds of times before. Myla kissed him on the forehead.

"Katie will be right down the hall if you need her." She smoothed a stray lock of hair away from Emory's face. "We'll see you in the morning, 'dark prince'."

Their son finally smiled back. "I love you."

Myla kept her benevolent expression in place, even as Oswald placed his hands on her shoulders, pulling her up. "We love you too."


	45. Chapter 45

Parties had become a special level of excruciating in the last couple years. Especially during cocktail hour, when she had to hear "and this is my wife, Myla" ad infinitum, followed by the question "What do you do, dear?". Myla did nothing. She had to tell everyone that she did _nothing_.

The other wives did things. Whether it was PTA related or organizing expensive museum fundraisers, they did something. All Myla had accomplished in the last five years was holding herself together, which was a hallow accomplishment.

"You should definitely speak with Alison Wexler again."

"Hm?" Myla took another champagne flute. "About what?" She already knew "about what". This was going to lead toward the infamous "I can't run for mayor if you're doing nothing" argument. Apparently, the public cares just as much – if not more – about what a political candidate's wife is doing as the candidate himself, and Oswald "needed" her to look more involved with the city before making a move.

"It would be good for you to get involved in a nonprofit." Oswald stated matter-of-factly. "You're going to have a lot of free time eight months from now, with Emory starting school."

Myla snorted into her drink. Eight months from now she would having another baby. Another baby would mean her life would be essentially lacking in this free time he spoke of. Plus, if everything went her way, she would having this baby alone. No time for nonprofit work there.

"You're right." She agreed. "I do need to start doing something. Remind me to give her my number after dinner."

Oswald was taken aback by the sudden simplicity of obtaining the agreement. "Oh."

Why not go the extra mile? "What's her husband's name? I want to say Derick."

"It's...Bradly." His wife's attitude shift – while one-hundred percent welcome – was still odd.

"Right, right. Maybe we can set up a dinner." Myla suggested. "Like you said, we really don't host enough."

Even when you find yourself at odds with your spouse, even when you want to be as angry as possible with them, you will still find yourself looking at them and thinking just how lucky you are to have them beside you. This was one of those moments for Oswald. "That would be lovely."

Myla drained her glass, placing it on the next empty tray they passed. Two drinks was enough.

Halfway into a particularly boring conversation on the rise of sales tax, Myla's phone – that she had been careful not to look at during the party – buzzed from inside her clutch. She excused herself to an empty corner and answered it.

"Hello?"

Katie's voice was borderline frantic."Mrs. Cobblepot?"

"Is something wrong, Katie?"

"Emory is...he's sick. He keeps throwing up."

Myla felt a twinge of guilt, but the news left her otherwise unaffected. "What's his temperature?"

"N-no fever," Katie stuttered, "he just won't stop vomiting."

"Okay." Myla sighed. "Okay. Give him a glass of ginger ale and put him in the shower. If he threw up on his bed, put him in the spare room across the hall, and, you know, get him little trash can with a liner in it."

"And then what?"

"Let me talk to Oswald. I'll call you back." She was already motioning for her husband to join her. "Just stop freaking out. I know Emory is never sick, but kids get sick, okay?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Something wrong, love?" Oswald asked.

Myla was sure to give him a proper look of concern. "It looks like Emory might have a stomach bug. Katie is panicking."

"Is he alright?" For a moment, he became almost as panicked as Celia had sounded.

"She says he doesn't have a fever..." She turned the phone over in her hands. "I told her to rinse him off and put him in the guest bed."

"Well, what do we do? Do we go home?" Myla really had meant it when she said Emory had never been sick – the worst the boy had suffered was a runny nose – and that was a result of crying from being denied ice cream.

"I was going to call her back, and tell her to call us back if he was still just as sick in an hour."

Oswald took a moment to think. They would miss dinner, sure, but they had been here long enough for introductions to take place, and there was little cause for slander toward worried parents leaving a party to tend to a sick child...He made a decision. "You should go home." Oswald told her. "I'm sure Emory is upset, and needs his mother. I'll be right behind you, as soon as I handle a few things here."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes, of course. Our son is the most important thing." Oswald smiled before giving her a quick kiss. "I'll see you at home."

Myla nodded slowly, careful not to look too enthusiastic.

"I'll see you there."


	46. Chapter 46

Katie went home easily enough, so shaken from spending an hour with a sick kid that it was a wonder that they had managed to hold onto a nanny so incompetent in a minor crisis.

Time was not on her side – Oswald could be home anywhere between twenty minutes and two hours, but the fact that he had yet to call and check on things pointed to a longer time frame. First order of business was a change of clothes: jeans and a hoody. Somehow, despite such a reputation of being comfortable, they felt even more constricting than her holiday party dress.

Back in the spare room, Emory was fast asleep. Myla sat next to him for a moment, pushing the damp hair from his forehead before pulling on a set of clothes more suitable for the cold over his pj's. It was sad to see him this, but it wasn't as if he would never get better. When that was done, she pulled her cell phone from her purse. "Do or die time." She mumbled,

Oswald answered on the very first ring. "How is he?"

"Emory's fine, he's sleeping." God, she hoped her voice didn't sound too shaky. "Are you on your way yet?"

"I will be."

How predictable, even after his whole "our son is more important" statement. "Well don't dally – it's still supposed to snow tonight, you know."

"Yes, darling, I know." He laughed. Myla assumed he had been in the middle of some other conversation prior to the call and was hanging around, because he never laughed like that toward her. "I'll be home soon."

"See you soon, then. Love you."

"I love you, too."

The lie felt dirty and awful. Despite five years together, Myla had still largely managed to avoid lying to him. Dodging isn't lying, after all, and technically neither is misdirection. "See you soon" was a lie. At least, she hoped it would be. After hanging up with him, Myla swatted the palm of her hand with the phone a few times, wondering just how guilty she must have sounded during their conversation, and then placed it gently on the dresser.

It took a good hour to get home from downtown Gotham. One could expect another twenty for weather-related traffic, and then add ten to fifteen minutes until he actually left the party. That was how long she had to get to the car she hid in the woods two miles from the property. From that point on, everything was a gamble. Myla scooped Emory into her arms and left the room.

The house was quiet and empty – not one soul bothered her on the journey to the kitchen – or even during her detour to the laundry room to retrieve Emory's cape. No one witnessed her open the panel in the breakfast nook. Myla felt almost sorry for the staff, knowing what sort of consequences Oswald was likely to bring down upon them after all was said and done.

Once inside the tunnel, Myla's breath echoed through the concrete hall much too loudly for her taste, but she couldn't decide if it was any worse than the ambiguity of silence.

"First step. First step. First step." She reminded herself that it was important to take things one step at a time. The first step was getting out of the house. That was all she needed to worry about right at this moment. Just getting out of the house. Myla took the entry to the bunker. She lingered inside for about a minute, contemplating whether or not to add her wedding ring to the farewell setup that she had put out for Oswald, even though it wouldn't quite fit in with the rest of the arrangement

No, it wouldn't send the same message. The ring would be better served as a memento, if anything.

She made quick enough work of getting outside. It had started to rain, just slightly, but enough to guarantee they would be soaked by the time they reached the car. Carrying Emory's limp, lanky body was already getting more difficult, she hoisted him up a little higher on her waist and entered the woods.

Pulled bark here. Broken branch there. Colored stones and the odd cheap toy scattered sparingly throughout. Myla had done what she could over the last few weeks, and thanks to a lot of hours of hide and seek, she had been able to effectively and inconspicuously mark a trail for herself, all the way to the small tan car on the outskirts of a field. Myla opened the back passenger door, laying Emory across the backseat and covering him with a blanket. He wouldn't be seen on the toll booth cameras. Before rounding her way to the drivers seat, she checked the trunk. More specifically, the space where a spare tire should have been. The bag was still there, the money, their clothes...everything was in order. Nothing holding her back now. Myla closed the trunk and got in the car.

The thing was noisier than she would've liked, but the rain was providing a decent cover, in more ways than one. When she got to the road, Myla wiggled the flip phone out of her pocket, and pressed "call". It was answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" Selina said cautiously, unsure of who would be on the other line.

"Thank you, for the car."

"Good, good, it's you. And no problem." Obtaining and placing the car had been a total cakewalk compared to the last favor Selina had granted. "Well...shit. I can't believe you're actually doing it."

"Yeah, well, it needs to be done." Myla felt out of breath. This was go time. Do or die time. If she was caught now, it was over. "I'm sorry to have to do this to you, but I have a final request."

Selina grit her teeth. "I hope it's simple."

"It is." Myla assured her. "I need you to get the passports."

"You forgot the passports?" Selina was dumbstruck. The passports were only _the_ most important part of the plan.

"I didn't forget them – I have them right now. I need you to get them."

"Why?" Was there something Selina just wasn't getting? "Are telling me that the whole thing with the passports was – what? Just for kicks?"

"They aren't just for kicks, Selina. I'm just not using them to go to another country." The explanation was unsatisfactory, to say the least, but Myla simply didn't have the capacity at the moment to provide the girl with a proper answer.

"Are...Are you fucking kidding me? That is literally the entire purpose of a passport. I can't fucking believe-"

"Selina," Myla interrupted sternly, "I don't have time to lay it all out for you, because the bridge is coming up and I've decided to chuck this phone over it, so listen carefully." She licked her lips, mentally preparing the quickest course of action. "My wonderful, dear Selina, I asked you – and only you – to help me because you can cover your tracks like no one else can. Which is why I'm trusting you to come get the passports. Which is why tomorrow morning, you're going to give them to Oswald, tell him you found them at the airport, and then…then you're going to sit back and watch him waste his time."

After taking another moment, it finally sunk in. Myla knew Selina obtained the passports outside of Gotham, but Penguin didn't. Figuring that out had the potential to cost him weeks, and any time he spent trifling with the surrounding major cities for information that no longer existed meant time for them to get further away. "Okay." She said. "Okay, I get it. Where are you putting them?"

"They'll be in The Village." Myla opened her window, preparing the launch the phone into the river. "Somewhere by my old job, but it won't be too obvious."

The speaker filled with a rushing sound of wind for a few seconds, and then nothing. Selina snapped her own phone in half, crushing the rest under her heel.

The Village. Selina remembered that bakery well – for weeks Oswald paid her to leave flowers on the doorstep at some obscene morning hour, and then once to sneak them inside.

 _Not too obvious?_ Yeah, right.


	47. Chapter 47

**_Sorry that posting edits (and thus getting around to the end of the story) has gotten pushed off for so long, but life happens, things come up, and one time - after editing nearly half of the story - about 40k words were somehow deleted, along with my backup documents. The event left me emotionally shattered for several weeks. In the end, there was just a lot that needed to be fixed/changed, and I wanted to try and get this right._**

 ** _First, I just want to say this fic began off as a collaborative effort. It was spearheaded by my friend Lilli, while (writing-wise) I mostly did things like editing and whatever writing was needed until the chapter reached a "goal" word count. Treacherous was fully handed off to me when Lilli's schedule became too full to allow for much personal writing, at which time she gave me permission to make changes to the story as I saw fit._**

 ** _The most drastic changes are found in the first 20 chapters, which include fixed spelling and continuity issues, slightly less cringworthy dialogue, and 2 new chapters (5 13). I broke up Chapter 43 into 3 different chapters, rather than one cobbled (ha) mess, and Myla was the recipient of some re-tooling. As far as Myla's original characterization goes, I personally got where Lilli wanted to go with it, (me being the co-creator and all), but clearly a lot of others did not, and in general I felt it just wasn't gelling as well as we initially predicted. However, while 2nd Draft Myla isn't nearly as helpless, I did allow for some of her previous naivete, as themes of innocence lost are ever prevalent in the BatVerse. That, and I thought it would look rude as hell for me give her a 100% total overhaul. She's me and Lilli's brain baby, after all._**

 ** _For now, I've put up the story all the way to where I left off. There will be_ _two chapters comprising the end to be posted, preferably before New Year's, and maybe a preview of the sequel I've been working on (which will not be Myla-centric)._**

 ** _Thank you for your patience - Penny_**

* * *

 _Not too obvious._

Falling snow always made the city feel so ethereal.

Jerry and Pam had certainly outdone themselves on the storefront decorations this year. There had been some remodeling, the windows were a bit more open than she remembered, shelves built in to allow a larger display of what the Sweet as Sugar Bakery had to offer.

Myla hadn't visited her old neighborhood in years. So much was different, but the apartments across from the shop looked to be largely unaffected by the extensive construction that had apparently been taking place on Edwidge Street through the years. And the same family must have still been living there too, at least that's what Myla garnered when she saw the wrapping paper-covered mailbox by the door, the same way it was always decorated - half a decade ago and beyond.

The mailbox was as fine a spot as any to ditch the passports for Selina to find. While Selina was better at verbal decryption than the average bear, it would be in her best interest not to make a grand challenge out of finding them. The lid made no noise as it opened to receive the unmarked envelope, but squeaked faintly when it was shut, causing Myla to freeze in a panic, even though no one was around to hear it.

She thought there was no one.

"Hey."

The voice was only a whisper, but it managed to sound off like a gunshot in the empty street, although it was still vague enough to remain unidentified until she looked at the speaker. Myla could run to the car – sure that no one Oswald sent after her was going to shoot – but she had to know who she might be dealing with. What they knew. If they were worth pulling the gun from her pocket.

Black leather. Pink hair.

"Margaret."

"Full name treatment, huh? Well isn't this serious." Mace shoved her hands into her pockets, face kept blank, save for the impish curl that always played on the edges of her lips.

Myla's body felt like it was growing roots, anchoring her to the concrete below. "How did you know I was leaving?" She was numb, her mouth was dry, but somehow she had managed to perform a coherent sentence.

"You know, I watched you check out of your marriage on your wedding day, so I pretty much knew what it would look like when you checked out with me. And when that day finally came, instead of just accepting that we never had a shot of keeping it going, I thought 'man, something must be up'." It's weird when someone jokes while also trying to appear devoid of emotion – Mace was no exception to that rule. "Are you gonna try to tell me I'm wrong?"

"So you followed me here?" Oh God, Emory. He was still in the car, half a block away. Did Mace know that? Had someone collected him? Was this over already?

"Well, I couldn't really follow you – I didn't know you had a car in the woods, you know." Myla watched with glassy eyes, still lost in thought while Mace bounced on the balls of her feet for a moment. "Do you know what Penguin – what Oswald – told me when I was first assigned to you?" She waited until Myla actually shook her head. "'Stay away from North 5th and West Edwidge'. Apparently those were your old stomping grounds, and being there would make you sad, or nostalgic, or whatever. It was actually kind of tough, since the University is like, right around the corner from here."

For all intents and purposes, it seemed as though Mace had come alone, but even still, there was no outrunning Mace – the woman was a damn force. A damn force who knew her too damn well. But Myla shook the roots loose enough to take a step back. Her lover smiled in response, mirroring the step, but closer. The snow that had gathered in the space between them crunched under her heavy boots, and Mace reached for something in her inner pocket. A knife.

"Aren't you just the sniper?" Myla said dryly.

A dry chuckle escaped Mace. "This isn't for you." She put the blade in Myla's palm, taking her lightly by the wrist, guiding the hand up to her throat. "The carotid is right...here. I'll bleed out in seconds. Dead before I hit the ground. It'll look professional..." She swallowed. Hard. "It will put you back on schedule." Her fingers tightened around Myla's hand

Why was she telling her this? "Margaret, I – you could -"

"I know you must have already figured out that I can't go with you. And when I...if I see Victor tonight, I'll have to tell him I saw you. I can't lie to him, you know I can't."

Her statement was completely, terrifyingly true, but the idea that Myla could kill Mace? Madness. "You can wait, can't you? Can't you just wait? You can tell him if you _just wait_." Mace's grip on her remained tight, refusing to let her hand budge. The pressure was making Myla's fingertips go numb, which actually sort of helped with the shaking.

"How long do you think it'll be until Penguin realizes you're gone? How long until he calls Victor? How long until one of them calls me – your bodyguard for the past five years?" Mace harshly spat out the realities of Myla's already precarious situation. "And after they call, and I tell them – which I will...How long until the all the roads out of the city are blocked?"

Myla fell silent again.

"That's what I thought. Now..." Her voice took on a calmer tone. "The resistance you're going to feel...really, it's almost all your head. If your knife is sharp – and trust me, mine is – at most it's like slicing into a very dense cake."

It felt like Mace was quoting something, but Myla wasn't understanding the reference. It helped her to realize at least one more previously unknown thing about her friend and lover. "You've done this before."

"Yeah." Mace smiled weakly. It was best to keep it to a simple answer, even though she really wanted to say that not even the freckles across Myla's nose could match the number of how many times she had done it.

"Myla." The name tumbled out again, a harsh whisper. "How bad to you want to be free? Want this new life?"

"I don't just want it." Myla bit her lip, trying to steady her hand. "I _need_ it. Emory _needs_ it."

Mace closed her eyes.

" _Me too."_


	48. Chapter 48

_**I wanted to wait until I was able to put up a few chapters of another fic up before I posted the ending, but I already hardcore missed my self-imposed deadline for Treacherous, and I'm not sure which one I want to go with first. The sequel to this fic feels more urgent, but it's kind of hashed and directionless at the moment. I have a Zsasz one that's been fun to write, but I always planned to work on the Ed spinoff first. Maybe I'll flip a coin** **¯\\_(ツ)_/¯**_

 _ **Anyway, so this is it. 49 chapters and 100k+ words of a story that was supposed to be "like 20 chaps max". Thank you to everyone who left us nice views, but also thank you to those who left well-meaning critiques. I know Lilli wasn't very...receptive toward them (she sent someone a 700-word rant over one once. yeesh.), but I tried to take some of your suggestions to heart in the 2nd draft, and hopefully it showed. Speaking of that, a special thank you to "Em" for sending her review three times because she wasn't sure that it would post - that was really sweet of you.**_

 _ **Until next time! - Penny**_

* * *

"You might want to consider that she left on her own."

"That sentence is still every bit as insulting as it was the first time you suggested it." Oswald spat. He had not expected James Gordon, of all people, to show the least amount of sympathy regarding the kidnapping of his thoroughly innocent family. "Detective, despite what our amicable co-existence might suggest, I did not bring you here to argue, or to banter – you are here to find the wretch who took my wife and son."

"And I'm warning you right now that this person might not exist." Jim fired back. "A kidnapper would have left you a message by now, and there is none."

"I...really just do not care about that." Oswald let out a strangled, heated breath through his nose. "James, whatever it is you believe, the objective remains the same. I want them back under my roof, and I trust you to make that happen."

Jim did not appear at all pleased by the honor of trust from someone like Oswald. "Why not ask someone else? It's not exactly like you to consult a cop first."

"Jim, Jim, Jim...Morally questionable as you can be, if you were to actually use my wife and child as leverage – as I suspect my comrades will do if given the opportunity – I'd eat my tie." This was not exactly the time for jokes, but harshness wasn't getting his family back any quicker. "Just to clarify – by leverage I mean 'give me ten million dollars or I'll shoot them', and not 'stop calling me'."

Jim stayed silent. The man had him there.

"Plus, cop or not, you are simply the best suited for this task."

"Fine." Detective Gordon bit his tongue. "I'll do you this favor, but I won't cross lines, and you won't hold me responsible if you don't like what shakes out."

Oswald thought to attempt a smile, to go along with his confident statement of "I know you won't fail me, Jim.", but just the thought of making such an expression felt wrong. Instead, he waited until Gordon left the room to pour himself a drink.

And another.

Then six more for good measure.

Oswald's chest was feeling uncomfortably tight – a rather unfamiliar sensation, as causes for him to be so worried were few and far between. He was not only worried for the safety of his family...but also worried, on some small, insignificant level, that Jim was right. Could Myla leave him like this? Would she?

There was no way. Myla would have required help – a great deal of help – to leave him, and no associate of his would dare do anything so foolish. A dozen very decidedly "not foolish" men who had been standing guard at the house all claimed they hadn't seen anyone or anything suspicious. Upon inspection, the mansion's security tapes also had nothing to show: a sure sign that Myla and Emory's disappearance was the work of a very clever enemy.

After exausting what alcohol was left his study, Oswald went upstairs, deciding this time might be somewhat better spent in a room without alcohol in it – namely, his bedroom. Their bedroom.

There had been something absolutely haunting about entering that room in that moment, seeing the empty side of the bed where Myla should have been sleeping, and Oswald began to consider how reliant he had become on his wife's presence. No matter how unhappy she was, she had stayed. Myla had remained by his side, on this thorny and treacherous path he was still forging for himself, ever patient, kind-hearted to a fault, and utterly faithful.

Stumbling a bit, Oswald made his way to the bed, and stared very hard at that empty spot. He doubted he would be able to sleep in this bed at all without Myla there, but before pushing off to a guest room, he reached for her teapot, only to come up empty.

However, that was not the result of a drunken fumble. Being so used to seeing it on it's usual perch, he didn't realize the teapot had not been there to grab in the first place.

He checked around the bed, eventually crouching down to look under it. Nothing. Slowly but surely, Oswald was filled with a sense of something quite ominous. Myla loved that teapot – she wouldn't leave it laying about.

Two thought emerged: either Myla was using the teapot as a way to convey a message about her abduction, or she took it with her to start a new life with their son.

Oswald shook off that one. Locating the teapot would be a worthwhile distraction, whether or not it was being used as a clue.

The kitchen was the first obvious place it might be, as Myla always took her ring off whenever she baked. Maybe she finally acknowledged that next to the sink was a hazardous spot for such an expensive and important piece of jewelry. He turned on every light on his way there, but paused at the edge of the kitchen.

At first he thought it was a trick of the eye – a shadow exaggerated by his inebriation – but the closer he got, the more real it became: a long crack, no thicker than a finger, in the exposed brick wall of their breakfast nook. A tap caused the door to spring the rest of the way open, and while it was still a very narrow opening, it was adequate enough for him to shimmy through.

The other side was a set of steps leading into a cold and dark concrete hallway, not unlike the one underneath his study. Exactly like that. Oswald knew he really ought to have called for someone immediately on discovering this new passageway, but there are moments where the sense of intrigue is enough to overpower ones self-preservation, and he kept walking. Unfortunately, it was not a strait path, each unexpected turn another addition to the many ways his body was going to hate him the next day, but it was a rather blessedly short path. Oswald fumbled around for an opening, praying that this wasn't some kind of trick. After a few moments, his fingers eventually found a handle, the wall quietly opening up into a brightly lit room.

For some reason, even though the passage had very clearly taken him underground, he had half-expected to find himself back in the house. It would have been a much more welcome and dare he say pleasant surprise, but the realization that he had been led to The Bunker was like a sucker punch to the gut.

But as he turned on his heel to leave, something new caught his attention.

A tall side table had been dragged into the center of room, and on it was Oswald's sought-after prize – Myla's tarnished silver teapot. It currently appeared as part of a shrine, as it was sitting amongst flowers, a few of Myla's older teacups (well, that made them her mothers teacups, he supposed), and the solitary photo she owned of her parents. He reached through his mind, trying to find some explanation for this...thoroughly odd setup. Was there something significant to it? Perhaps she had done something like this for the holidays before, and he had simply never noticed.

Regardless, Oswald was relieved to see this collection of rather significant items. Myla would never these things behind – her most treasured possessions, the only physical ties to the memory of her parents. He fondly stroked the spout of the teapot with the blade of his finger, marveling once again at that aching feeling deep in his chest before picking it up, intending to return it to the rightful place on Myla's nightstand.

As he walked back to the door, he felt as though something was missing from the situation. Brushing it off over the stress and fear of his likely terrified wife and child, Oswald picked up the pace. Then it hit him.

The noise. The trademark rattle of Tanya Kozak's wedding ring within the teapot.

Lifting the teapot to his ear, Oswald gave it shake. Nothing. He smacked it with the palm of his hand, thinking perhaps it got lodged someplace. Still, nothing.

The ache quickly transformed, panic and confusion taking its place as he briefly studied the teapot. There was no apparent tampering to the object, no cut and welded spot could be found on the badly tarnished surface. The lid was as stuck as it had ever been. Unsatisfied, Oswald went back to the table, in search of some other sign.

And he found it.

Carefully placed between folds of rose petals was a ring: a thin gold band with a pearl. Some effort had been made to clean it, but that was all useless, for you cannot repair damage done to a pearl – much less a pearl that had suffered a fire, and then laid for twenty-odd years in soot, grime, and dust. Regardless of the state of the ring, he knew instantly that this was Myla's mother ring. She had finally found a way.

A laugh escaped from between Oswald's lips before he could stop it, the sound harsh and strange in the emptiness of this awful room.

She found a way out.


	49. Chapter 49

It was colder and foggier than she expected it to be, but the way the breeze ruffled up Myla's newly shorn hair gave off a sense of freedom she had not known before. The hard part was over.

For the moment, at least. Glancing behind her again, she noticed movement under the pile of blankets in the backseat. With a neatly folded paper bag of unhealthy breakfast pastries in hand, Myla hopped down from the hood of the car, rounding toward the back passenger door and sliding in next to her son.

"Good morning."

"G'morning mom." Emory's shy smile shone through his grogginess. After three days of heavy sleep and sickness, he was getting back to himself. "Where are we?"

"Someplace new." She opened the bag, offering Emory a large doughnut slathered in chocolate and sprinkles. "The ocean. On a beach where we can watch the sun set later."

"The Pacific?"

"Yep. And tomorrow, we're going someplace really special." Disneyland. Myla had already gotten directions from the woman running the front desk at their motel, and a little blank book from a corner store for Emory to collect character signatures.

"Is daddy coming too?"

The question lingered in the space between them, and she felt her smile falter, her skin getting noticeably paler, but she couldn't afford any of that.

All the mirror rehearsals in world didn't prepare Myla for looking her son in those wide eyes – eyes that held the same color and unsettling ferocity of Oswald's - and stating that he would likely never see his father again. That the person he loved most in the world was a bad man. Ultimately, she decided she just couldn't do it. Not today.

Somehow it felt even harder to smile, and tell him, "Don't worry – daddy will catch up." while she was praying that he wouldn't. God, she really hoped he wouldn't.

The hardest part was far from over.


End file.
